


Bits from the Path

by keyrousse



Series: Wieśkowe historie/The Witcher stories [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Violence, Don’t copy to another site, Family, Friends to the Rescue, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Rescue, wounded Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-10-05 14:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17326931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyrousse/pseuds/keyrousse
Summary: A series of independent one-shots from the world of The Witcher - games and books by Andrzej Sapkowski.ch. 1: Three pieces of news: some bad, some better, some of them good.ch. 2: Geralt saved Olgierd von Everec's soul and got two swords as a prize.ch. 3: The aftermath of the pogrom in Kaer Morhen.ch. 4: The pack of Wolves. (rescue mission, brotherhood, hurt/comfort)ch. 5: Geralt has more friends than he thinks. (aftermath of good ending of B&W)ch. 6: The beginning of a beautiful friendship.





	1. News

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Urywki ze Szlaku](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12769956) by [keyrousse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyrousse/pseuds/keyrousse). 



> I decided to translate some of my The Witcher shorts from “Urywki ze Szlaku”. Not all of them, as I can't really write about these characters in English, because I hear them only in Polish. Polish dubbing has some advantages, like Geralt's voice is more expressive and simply sexier in Polish than in English (sorry, Doug), but we don't have accents (well, there are some regional differences, but they are not as obvious as in English), so I can't really recreate their talking style in English, because for me most of them talk just... properly. I would have to watch playthroughs in English and I’m not sure I’m ready for such sacrifice ;).  
> Translation inspired by [embeer2004](https://archiveofourown.org/users/embeer2004/pseuds/embeer2004). Beta and invaluable suggestions provided by [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three pieces of news: some bad, some better, some of them good. From the end of the Saga, through the beginning of the first game, to the end of “Blood and Wine” DLC of TW3.

Year 1268

 

[some fragments illegible due to ink smudges and water stains] _To the witchers from Kaer Morhen in Kaedwen, by upper reaches of Gwenllech_

 

_It is with great sadness and sorrow_

_that I must inform you_

_that our mutual acquaintance,_ [illegible] _in arms, dear friend, brother,_

_witcher Geralt of Rivia, known as the White Wolf_

_was killed_ [illegible, later a different ink used] _two days ago during the pogrom in Rivia,_

_while defending the non-humans from the mob._

_May_ [illegible] _consolation,_

_that during his last moments he was surrounded by family and friends._

_Bodies of him and sorceress Yennefer, exhausted from the efforts of saving his life, were taken by Cirilla to a place unknown to me._

_We may never see th_ [illegible].

_With unspeakable grief,_

_Dandelion the Bard._

 

* * *

 

The letter was found by Eskel a month later, in a postal station nearest to the fortress, as he was descending from the pass. He read it once, twice, thrice, then turned his horse and galloped back to Kaer Morhen, where he arrived two days later.

For the next three days, none of the four witchers present in the fortress was sober. Vesemir was the first to wake up; he disentangled himself from under Lambert's legs, and with heavy steps he climbed the stairs to the chamber Geralt usually occupied.

Slowly, hesitantly, he pushed the squeaky door open.

The room was in the same state it had been left in two or three years ago; everything now hidden under a thick layer of dust.

Vesemir stood in the doorway, his hand on the doorknob. He stared at the single bed, covered with a gray bedspread; at the chest in the corner, where all belongings were traditionally stored. At a narrow bookshelf, packed with tomes Geralt had liked to bring from his travels - among them legends, treaties on world history, politics and science. He had liked to learn, he had always been curious about the world.

On one of the shelves stood Geralt’s notebooks: he had a habit, in his younger years, to write down what he’d learnt: the conclusions certain contacts would inspire, his thoughts of people he’d encountered; legends, curses he’d lifted, words in Elder Speech and dialects used in the countries he had passed.

Vesemir remembered that Geralt’s handwriting had always been neat and tidy. In childhood, Eskel had often borrowed his notes, because he had been learning very slowly and after all these years his handwriting still resembled a chicken scratch, illegible even to himself.

Traditionally, when a witcher died and it was impossible to find and bury the body, the rest of them would collect all his possessions, burn them and bury the remains in a symbolic grave, in the mountains above the fortress.

The old witcher could not do it. He could not let the white-haired boy, whom he raised from a child, become only a symbolic gravestone.

It wasn’t like they needed a place for new tenants, after all.

He felt the silent presence of Eskel behind him; Lambert and Leo were further back.

Vesemir turned to them. Lambert showed him a bottle of freshly brewed White Gull, making Vesemir wonder just how long he was standing in the doorway of Geralt’s chamber.

They never could deal with feelings. To all extreme emotions, including overwhelming sadness, they reacted by drinking until they dropped.

They eventually settled on burning a wooden training sword they had found in the corner of Geralt's chamber, and the first version of the white-haired witcher's notes on monsters. The second version, rewritten by the same hand and tidied up, had been resting on a shelf in the library for a long time as a valuable update to their textbook.

The rest of the room's content remained untouched.

The ashen remains were buried in the upper courtyard, under the stairs to the pendulum.

They did not sober up for the next three days.

 

* * *

 

Year 1273

 

Triss was engrossed in a book, seated comfortably at her desk in her home in Maribor, when a sound similar to a thunder echoed through the house. One look at the starry sky outside the window eliminated the risk of a storm, nor it did it sound like a typical portal.

There was a sound of quick, clearly feminine steps on the stairs. Without getting up, Triss turned towards the door.

Ciri stormed into her room, panting.

“Ciri!” Triss jumped out of the chair and threw her arms around the gray-haired girl she had not seen in five years. She hugged her tightly. “What are you doing here? Where have you been?” she asked, still holding her in her arms.

Ciri gave her a firm hug. She seemed nervous, as if she was in a hurry.  She was shaken, pale and wet from sweat or rain.

“This is an impossibly long story,” she breathed.

Triss released the embrace, holding the girl at arm's length, and examined her closely.

“Gods, you grew up...” she said with admiration.

Ciri was no longer a slightly lost, sixteen-year-old girl. Instead, a young, confident woman stood in front of her, a sword on her back, graying hair pulled back in a loose bun in the back of her head. The wound on her cheek had healed to an unsightly scar the girl tried to hide under makeup and a lock of hair; her eyes still framed by black kohl. Her clothes were a bit worn, but good quality, comfortable; practical but flattering at the same time. She still liked wearing trinkets, Triss noticed - a belt studded with precious stones, a few bracelets on her wrists.

She looked tired, but she seemed strong and healthy.

“Triss, forgive me, but I’ve no time for explanations. I need your help with an extremely urgent matter,” said Ciri, firmly, but not unkindly removing the sorceress's hands from her shoulders. She opened her mouth to continue, but clearly changed her mind about her next words. “Actually, no, I'll tell you briefly where I've been, because it matters.”

They sat at the table. Triss quickly prepared something to eat; Ciri drank a glass of juice in a single gulp.

“In a nutshell, this is what it looks like,” Ciri began between the bites of chicken sandwich, still chewing. “Just please, listen to me first, without interrupting. It's… quite complicated,” she added after swallowing.

“I promise,” Triss said instinctively, then blushed. Ciri rolled her eyes at her, but smiled. She put the sandwich on the plate and turned serious again.

“Geralt and Yennefer survived Rivia”, she started without further preamble.

Triss opened her mouth to speak, but the sharp look of Ciri's emerald eyes quietened her.

“With the help of a unicorn I managed to transfer them to Isle of Avalon, where they recovered”, Ciri blurted out. “The Isle was destroyed by the Wild Hunt, and Geralt got into their hands. I don't know for certain where Yen is - apparently in Nilfgaard, and if so, she's safe for now. I know how to get Geralt back, but he will need your help.”

“Do you know how he’s doing?” Triss could not stop herself from asking.

“He's in danger,” Ciri admitted grimly. “The Aen Elle brainwash potential riders, but Geralt seems to be breaking out of it, starting to resist, and they don't like it. I want to get him out of their clutches, but all of this can have serious consequences for his mind. I've heard about cases where people lost their memory.” Ciri took a breath and looked at the sorceress, her eyes quietly pleading. "Would you take care of him?"

“I’m aware that if you knew how to contact Yen...” Triss began, some bitterness seeping into her voice.

For a moment, Ciri stared at her with a stony face, her pose rigid.

“I will not be able to stay with him,” she said eventually. "Wild Hunt will likely chase me. I will leave him in the woods near Kaer Morhen. He'll be safe in the fortress.”

“How much time do I have to get there?” Triss asked.

For a moment, she forgot she had always been but a friend to Geralt, always less important than Yenna. If he had lost his memory, he would have been defenseless to some extent. He would need her, and she could help him. She had to act.

“A week, at most," Ciri said and stood up, clearly about to leave. “Tell the witchers everything,” she ordered firmly, but then her voice softened. “Help him, will you?”

“Of course,” Triss assured her. She stood up and put her arms around Ciri again.

Ciri hugged her and her shoulders relaxed a little; her relief that she could rely on someone almost palpable. Triss could sense the girl's exhaustion.

“Do you have to go or can you stay for the night?” Triss asked, letting go of Ciri.

The girl hesitated, bit her lip. She looked at Triss, clearly torn.

“Stay,” Triss pleaded. "You need to rest - and it would give us some time together."

Ciri sighed, her shoulders slumped forward; looking as if someone pierced the balloon that kept her upright.

“I missed you too,” she admitted in a quiet voice, leaning her head against Triss' shoulder. The sorceress stroked her back.

 

* * *

 

Triss still remembered the way to Kaer Morhen. She covered most of the distance from Maribor by portals; she did not have time to ride a horse. The last stretch of the road, some five hundred meters of approach to the gate, she went on foot. Soon she saw the familiar limestone towers.

The fortress was more damaged than it had been ten years ago when she'd been here last time: there were more breaches in the walls; one of the towers fell.

And it was quiet. Deadly quiet.

Triss looked back. The view of the pass was still breathtaking.

The gate was open. Triss entered the lower courtyard, where she immediately ran into Vesemir, who either heard her portal or was doing some maintenance work.

“Triss! What brings you to us?” asked the old witcher, spreading his arms to embrace her.

Triss gave him a brief hug.

“Very important news,” she said in a serious tone. “How many of you are here?” she asked, looking around. “Can you gather everyone?”

“Me, Eskel, Lambert and Leo,” said Vesemir, taking Triss’ traveling bundle from her and leading her up the ramp to the upper courtyard.

“Leo?” Triss was surprised. She had not heard of him before.

“Our newest,” Vesemir explained calmly. “A postwar orphan. We didn't put him through the Trials, naturally, but he’s a great swordsman."

The calm of his voice brought back the memories of the days spent in the fortress, of the warmth he'd seemed to always have for her, even though he would have been a little tense in her company. Other than Geralt, he treated her best. Eskel respected her, but kept his distance, and Lambert never referred to her with anything else other than open reluctance - which might have simply been a lack of trust for sorceresses. Vesemir treated her a little bit fatherly - same as all the other inhabitants of the fortress. As the last of the old generation of “wolf” witchers, he assumed the role of a mentor and wore it well.

“Eskel went on a hunt, he should come back in the evening. Lambert and Leo are inside the top gate,” said Vesemir.

Triss felt her heartbeat increase. She stiffened a little and bit her lower lip as they walked towards the inner gate.

In a moment, she would give them some very good news and she did not know where to start. It was only now that she truly felt the importance of the information she was entrusted with. Only now did she realize what this meant.

Geralt could be here any day now. Probably wounded and with amnesia - but alive.

 

* * *

 

Triss could not sleep that night. She got up, wrapped herself in a blanket, blindly put on some shoes and stepped down from the tower, where she occupied the best bed, to the upper courtyard. The moon was shining brightly, yet she almost missed the dark-haired figure sitting under the stairs to the pendulum.

It was only when she came closer that she recognized Eskel. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, staring at the rock by the wall, every now and then taking a generous sip from a bottle beside him. He was clearly drunk: he hiccuped and swayed a little, not able to stay upright.

“This bard, Geralt's buddy, wrote to us after the pogrom,” he said, without turning to her. Even drunk, he was able to hear her cautious, quiet steps.

She stood behind him and wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Kaer Morhen was cold at night, regardless of the season. She cast a quick look around - they were alone in the courtyard.

“You could see that he was crying as he wrote that Geralt had died,” Eskel's words came out a bit slurry. “I never fully understood that friendship, but as I read that letter, I appreciated it.” Eskel nodded to himself. “Not only was he with Geralt then, he was the only one who decided to tell us what happened. He was the only one who thought to write to us.”

Triss lowered her gaze, embarrassed. She bit her lip, shifted from foot to foot. It was cold; her teeth began to chatter.

“You were there then, right?” Eskel asked, still looking at the stone by the wall. He showed no signs of being cold. “I've heard about that magical hailstorm.”

“Mhm,” Triss reluctantly admitted, still stomping in the attempt to warm up her bare legs. Except for a blanket and the shoes, she wore only a thin nightgown. “I don't know why I didn't tell you...” she began. She was certain that, despite her stomping, Eskel could read the guilt in her heartbeat, and her voice.

“It was five years ago, Triss,” said Eskel with finality. He waved his hand casting Igni, and lighting a nearby torch, set in a holder on the wall above them.

Triss finally saw the stone clearly. It was Geralt's symbolic gravestone. Only his name was engraved on it, without dates of birth and death. It was highly unusual that his headstone was placed here, in the fortress, not in the mountains beyond.

“I will destroy it as soon as Geralt comes back to us,” Eskel declared somewhat grimly and took another sip from the bottle.

“No, I think you should leave it,” Triss suddenly said. She crouched beside him and put her arm around his shoulders, throwing half of the blanket over his back. “He was dead for you and the rest of his friends for five years. We all grieved. We do not have to forget about it.”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and nodded.

 

* * *

 

“ _Geralt._

_Your name is Geralt. You're called “of Rivia”, but you grew up in Kaedweni mountains, in Witchers' Lair, Kaer Morhen._

_You have friends there. They will take care of you.”_

 

“ _And you? Who are you? I know I should remember you.”_

 

“ _You'll remember me when the time comes. I remember you. I'll come back for you. And now, run. When you reach a river, run upstream. By the crossing, run uphill. At the end of the path there will be a fortress. Your home. Run and don't look back.”_

 

_* * *_

 

“ _Geralt!”_

 

_* * *_

 

“ _I remember nothing...”_

 

* * *

 

Triss came down from the tower and went into the kitchen. She was exhausted and didn't really have the energy to satisfy the curiosity of the four witchers, who were all staring at her, expectations written in the lines of their faces.

“He remembers Vesemir,” she said, sitting down heavily on the bench at the table. Eskel offered her a bowl of hot porridge. She stirred the porridge with a spoon, but despite her hunger, she could not swallow anything. “He knows that he's a witcher and what it means. He has no idea how he got here. He doesn't remember me, Yen, Ciri... He can't cast Signs, he doesn't remember those gestures at all.”

The witchers exchanged puzzled glances over the table. Triss attempted to eat a spoonful of porridge and gave up, pushing the bowl away from her.

“And physically?” asked Vesemir.

Triss suddenly realised that everyone was sober, and focused.

“He's exhausted,” she began. “Lost some weight, got some minor cuts; he's battered, one or two bumps on his head. Nothing serious,” she added with a dismissive gesture. “He has some appetite. He should get back on his feet quickly.”

She did not want to admit that between her tearing away his ripped and bloody shirt and him regaining consciousness, she had spent five minutes staring at a healed puncture wound - three scars arranged in a line across his stomach and chest. It took some effort to get over her shock and to focus on tending to his most urgent wounds.

“Will he recover?” Eskel asked. He sat hunched in front of her, his gaze lowered. He could not eat either: his own bowl of porridge was untouched.

They had all thought they would have gotten him back. And in the room in the tower lay only an empty shell of their brother.

“Physically? For sure,” Triss replied with forced enthusiasm, but the cool look of four pairs of eyes caused her to drop the pretence. She shrugged. “If you're asking about the amnesia... It will probably take a while. But we should remain hopeful.”

Eskel sighed, his shoulders slumping even more.

The initial joy and relief of finding Geralt - a close friend, almost a brother - alive in the forest soon subdued when they realised how poor his mental state was. Triss had warned them that it might have been so, but in a strange show of optimism, they did not want to believe it.

They did not have the slightest idea how to help him.

Leo was silent all the time. He had never met Geralt in person, but he had heard about him and admired him, so the gloomy mood affected him as well.

“For now, we have to concentrate on helping him to remember the basics,” Vesemir said grimly, rubbing a stain on the table with his finger. “Fencing and Signs often determine our survival. We will think about the rest once he has a chance to survive on the Path.”

“You cannot be thinking of kicking him out in this state?!” Lambert leaped from behind the table, nostrils flaring.

“Where did you get that idea from?" Vesemir replied coldly, looking him straight in the eye.

Embarrassed, Lambert sat back down and said nothing.

“We simply have no idea when he will regain his memory, and he can’t stay locked up here for gods only know how long," Vesemir explained, still coldly.

Incredibly hungry, Triss made another unsuccessful attempt to eat the porridge. Eskel silently poured a spoonful of honey on it.

“We should let him rest for now,” Lambert murmured, still hunched over the table and staring down at it. “We'll start with the basics when he's able to hold a sword.”

 

* * *

 

Year 1275

 

_How am I?_

_Her Enlightened Ladyship of Toussaint, Anna Henrietta, gave me a decrepit vineyard as a partial payment for_ _a contract - and while it's not decrepit anymore, it's not producing wine yet._ _If you want, I can ask EL for a free passage for you and Priscilla. If you stay away from trouble and her maids-of-honor, she may let you visit me._

_I don't know where you are going to sleep, though, because the only guest room has been permanently taken up by Ciri._

 

_With best regards from Corvo Bianco_

_Geralt_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos feed the writer!


	2. The ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt saved Olgierd von Everec's soul and got two swords as a prize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Olgierd von Everec as much as I love one of the literary sources for his character and looks, Andrzej Kmicic from Henryk Sienkiewicz's “The Deluge” book.  
> But, to be honest, I made the run for the souls not only to save him, but to get those two swords. ;)  
> Contains small pieces of dialogue from the game.  
> With huge thanks to [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean) for beta :)

“Begone. You've lost,” declared Geralt.

Gaunter O'Dimm disappeared, engulfed in fire and darkness.

 

* * *

 

Geralt woke up lying on a cold, stone floor; the first thing he saw were Olgierd's red hair and his grey eyes, full of concern as the nobleman crouched beside him.

“Witcher!” Olgierd exclaimed with relief.

Geralt grunted in reply and tried to sit.

Olgierd put his hand under Geralt’s back and supported him, helping him to stand. He escorted the witcher to the fallen columns nearby and sat him down on one of the stones, then he himself sank onto a rock next to Geralt.

Geralt rested his elbows on his knees, hung his head down and breathed heavily; he felt like someone had chewed him and spat him out. His head hurt, all of his muscles were strained, a chill set in his bones; the left side of his face still burned slightly. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a year.

The faint light of sunrise began to break through the clouds on the horizon, warming his back. Geralt did not know how much time he had spent in the world of Master Mirror or how long he had been unconscious after his return. At the moment though, he did not have the strength to think about it.

“Here,” Olgierd offered him a small bottle.

“What is it?” Geralt asked, his voice hoarse.

“Wine.”

The witcher did not comment on Olgierd keeping a bottle of alcohol on him; he took it with a shaking hand and drank a solid gulp. The beverage was bitter, but anything liquid was welcome. He handed the flask back to Olgierd, who also drank, winced and gave him the bottle again.

“You seem to need it more than me,” the nobleman said.

Geralt snorted without much humour. He felt Olgierd looking at him as if he could not believe what had happened.

Geralt glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and drank the wine again. His throat was still dry.

“Why did you do that?” Olgierd finally spoke up. “After all that I've done to you, why did you help me?”

Geralt sighed.

“Because I knew how,” he replied and looked at the nobleman again. “Because you regret what happened to you, your wife and your brother. Because, contrary to appearances, you're not an incurable bastard, and since I could give you a second chance, I decided to give it a try.”

“Risking yourself in the process.”

“I said I'm capable of achieving the impossible. I brought you the rose you gave your wife years ago. Gave your deceased brother's soul a chance to enjoy himself,” Geralt reminded him. “Seven years ago I died in the Rivian pogrom and I returned five years later,” he revealed. “I lived my life once already and although I’m not looking to die again anytime soon, I got a second chance and I think you deserve it too.”

Olgierd stared at him with wide eyes, clearly processing what he had just heard.

“I was lucky it was you who took that job,” he murmured and shook his head. “Now I see I owe you an apology. You were used and had no choice in the matter.”

“Oh, shut up,” Geralt snarled and drank more of the wine. There was no emotion in his voice, neither venom nor irony. He was not angry at Olgierd, but he did not have the energy to accept any kind of apology or signs of gratitude.

Olgierd laughed softly.

Geralt noticed immediately that Olgierd's voice was full of emotions. The red-haired nobleman was definitely shaken; he also managed to voice his anguish over the past and gratitude for his second chance - a far cry from the past Olgierd, who had been absolutely indifferent.

They were sitting on the rocks, watching the sunrise in silence.

“So, any better?” asked Olgierd after a while.

Geralt drank another gulp of alcohol.

“Yeah, thanks. Wine's revived me a bit.”

“Heh. This plonk could revive a corpse. An exquisitely rank vintage,” Olgierd said as if he had only noticed how bad the wine was. “You know what, though? It's good at last to taste something... real.”

 

* * *

 

Geralt walked into the Chameleon on heavy legs and took a quick look around the main hall. The inn was crowded, as always in the evening: all tables were occupied, a band played on stage, waitresses practically danced between patrons, their arms full of food and drinks; Dandelion was looking after everything, with Zoltan nowhere in sight.

The witcher climbed to the second floor and headed straight for the room at the end of the corridor, the same one he usually occupied. The weapons on his back and armor seemed to weigh more than usual; he wanted them off as soon as possible.

He shook off his armor and the harness with swords, washed himself in a wash-basin on the table, put on simple trousers and a shirt. He glanced at the bed. The wooden frame with straw-filled mattress looked inviting. He should have gone down to greet his friends and eat something, but he barely managed to remain upright. He debated about it for a moment, then collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep immediately.

He woke up a few hours later, slightly less tired, but still stiff; a headache was pounding behind his eyes. He felt each one of his hundred years of age.

Outside the window it was still dark; music could be heard from below.

He rolled off the bed, tied his hair back and went downstairs. He stopped on the landing, leaned against the balustrade and observed the crowded main hall for a moment.

Dandelion spotted him immediately from the other end of the room and came to stand in front of him, on the ground floor.

“How's your contract in Oxenfurt?” he asked, looking up to where the witcher stood, hands on his hips.

Geralt looked at him calmly from above, his elbows on the balustrade and fingers clasped.

“Done,” he replied.

Dandelion lifted an eyebrow, assessing his friend’s state. Geralt had never returned from a contract so worn out, unless he'd gotten wounded. The bard couldn't see any signs of that though; Geralt's task must have exhausted him in some other way.

“Could you elaborate?” Dandelion asked cautiously.

“Last night I bet my own soul to save someone else's,” Geralt said, his voice still devoid of emotion.

Dandelion did not know what to do with this revelation. He usually took weird news in a stride, but this was something else.

“Was it worth it?” he finally asked, concluding that since Geralt was standing in front of him, tired but alive, he’d had to win that bet.

“I hope so,” said Geralt and saw Dandelion's eyes light up.

“Oh no, brother, we will not leave it like this,” the bard protested.

Geralt felt a smile tugging at his lips, but he suppressed it: Dandelion swallowed the bait.

The bard climbed the stairs, grabbed Geralt by the elbow and brought him to a table. The witcher did not resist: after twenty five years of acquaintance, he knew exactly what to expect from his friend. Although he generally avoided physical contact, he needed Dandelion's touch, a tangible proof of their relationship. In the numbness that overcame him in the aftermath of the race for his soul, the hand on his shoulder helped him regain some of the balance; helped to prove his own heart hadn't turned to stone.

He had known Dandelion longer than Yennefer; much longer than Ciri. Dandelion was the first person outside of the witchers’ circle (which included the priestess of Melitele, Nenneke), with whom he maintained such stable and long-term relations; the bard himself deserved a lot of credit for that, too, as he had never gotten scared off, not even in the most difficult situations. Geralt was not sure whether he expressed his gratitude often enough.

A waitress immediately set a pint of beer in front of the witcher.

“Some food, too,” Dandelion ordered and sat down next to his friend. “And you will tell me everything, from the beginning to the end, about that contract in Oxenfurt.”

Geralt looked at him, keeping his face expressionless. Dandelion did not move, unimpressed. Geralt smiled with one corner of his mouth and drank a gulp of the beer.

The waitress brought a bowl of dumplings and a fork.

The story flowed.

About the toad-prince in Oxenfurt canals. About waking up on the ship to Ofier. About the storm and escape. About the mark and the debt of gratitude. About the three wishes of the immortal nobleman. About the past of Olgierd von Everec, his wife and his brother. Eventually, about the meeting on the moon and the race for their two souls.

Dandelion tried extremely hard not to interrupt him, but Geralt knew the effort caused the bard almost physical pain. The witcher was aware that his rather dry account would soon become a highly coloured ballad, or even a play. He did not mind - if he had, he could not have been persuaded to tell the story.

The long tale allowed him to sort his own feelings on this whole adventure and fully recover mentally. He remembered the silver sword and the magical steel saber that had joined his equipment - tangible evidence that the last few days had really happened. Both blades lay in his room, waiting for his attention, inspection and testing.

Dandelion asked a few questions, but Geralt was too tired to continue talking, so after cleaning the bowl of dumplings and drinking two pints of beer, he called it a night and returned to his room, missing the awed look his friend gave him.

The silver sword and the magical saber were propped against the chest, the way he'd left them.

Geralt suddenly forgot he had been sleepy just a moment before.

He sat on the bed and grabbed the scabbard with the silver sword. The metal sang as he pulled it out of its cover; it shone in the light of candles. The medallion on Geralt’s neck vibrated lightly and stilled.

Geralt laid the bare sword on his knees, reached for a cloth and slowly began to polish the blade, inspecting it closely. The metal was marked by delicate runes in an unknown language. Geralt put one hand on the handle, he laid the other flat on the blade, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He focused on the cold metal, tried to feel its aura, but the sword was silent.

Geralt opened his eyes, rose, grabbed the handle in both hands. He stood at the center of the room with the blade pointing up and forward, and swung it in an arch. The air hissed, but nothing else happened.

His medallion was also still.

Geralt lowered the sword to the floor, watching the gleaming metal.

“You put it out as a bait,” he said. Gaunter's demonic face flashed in his mind. “You wanted to stop me, delay me so I wouldn't find you in time.”

Only silence answered him.

The sword in his right hand, he twirled it in the air. The silver sang, the blade catching the light from the candles, leaving a fiery trail in its wake; flying through the air in a wide arches and elegant circles. Geralt dropped the sword to his left hand and continued the exercise, spinning, attacking, parrying, stabbing and cutting some invisible enemy, attacking from all sides. A less skilled swordsman would have destroyed something already in the small room, but in his hand the tip of the blade did not touch a single thing.

He finished the spin, then grasped the handle in both hands, stood with the sword in front of him, again pointing upwards. There was nothing but a wall before him. He stared at it along the gleam of silver in his hands.

“You'll be useful,” he said aloud, assessing the balance of the weapon. “You wouldn’t help me against whom I have you from, but you will help me in the fight with his spawn.”

He made a one-handed swing of the sword from one side to the other, once, twice, switched hands; the silver was singing in his ears more and more beautifully, the handle fitting his hand better and better. He was deadly with any weapon or even without it, but he had to get used to every sword he planned to use regularly. He had to trust the weight of the handle in his hand, he had to know what strength he should use and what range the blade had.

He was satisfied.

He lowered the sword to the floor, and only then he noticed Dandelion’s eye peering through the crack in the door.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him.

“Is this some new ritual?” asked Dandelion, stepping in cautiously. “First time I see you doing something like this.”

Geralt shrugged and put the sword back into its sheath. Dandelion looked at him, uncertain.

Geralt put down the scabbard with the silver sword and grabbed the Iris' handle.

He swung it in the air from side to side. Dandelion twitched, but he remained by the door - he knew Geralt's fencing craft and was not afraid that he would get under the blade.

“It looks heavy,” Dandelion noticed.

“Only appears that way,” said Geralt, focused on the blade. He did not offer for Dandelion to take it; he knew the bard would refuse, and it was a bad idea anyway.

He stood close to Dandelion, his back to him and repeated the ritual with the spins and weighing the saber in each hand separately.

“Some of my swords have been heavier,” Geralt added. “Normal mortals wielded it, it's Ofieri steel.”

“Will this one also be useful to you?” Dandelion inquired with a smile.

“Uh-oh, you heard that?” Geralt asked, peeking at him out a corner of his eye.

Dandelion knew that Geralt sometimes spoke to himself: it helped him gather his thoughts and made statements binding. The bard had not realised that the spoken declaration of the weapon's usefulness was a kind of a baptism of a blade in a new hand. Geralt had never done it; as far as Dandelion knew, none of the witcher's swords were so “baptized”. Those two swords must then have held a greater value to Geralt.

“I'm sorry if I heard something I shouldn't,” Dandelion retreated.

Geralt waved his free hand dismissively.

“If I wanted to hide it, I wouldn't do it here,” he replied. Dandelion felt absolved and continued to watch.

Geralt again swung the saber, the steel sang beautifully. He grabbed the handle with his right hand, raised the blade to the front of his face, put his left hand flat on the steel and closed his eyes.

Dandelion sensed that he should be silent as he watched his friend focus. He rarely paid attention to Geralt's appearance, but in the silence of the room, during this strange ritual, he could not resist but to make certain observations.

He noticed that Geralt was aging. He grew a bit of a stubble, which made him look older. The wrinkles around the eyes multiplied and deepened.

Why would not he age? Dandelion knew that Geralt was about hundred years old. The last ten years had been particularly rough for him: the war, the search for Ciri, death, the service in the ranks of Wild Hunt, then amnesia, another war, even more troubles.

He noticed, too, that the paresis in Geralt’s left hand, acquired in the fight with Vilgefortz on Thanedd, had passed. The witcher had managed just fine with only a partial use of his left hand, but Dandelion was glad to see the old infirmity finally yielding to time.

Geralt shaken him out of his reverie as he began to swing the saber again. Dandelion watched him dance around the room with a cat-like, deadly grace. After a while, Geralt finished his exercise, this time without any loud declarations.

“So, how about this one? Where will it go before the next contract?” inquired Dandelion, nodding at the saber. “Onto your back or in the stash?”

“Definitely my back,” Geralt said, studying the blade. “I'll have to get used to it, as it's not a double-edged sword, but it shouldn't be a problem.”

“You rarely get such souvenirs after a contract,” added Dandelion, admiring the saber from a safe distance.

“True; usually I only grow a collection of scars,” Geralt admitted with a slight smile.

“Do you think von Everec will keep his word? Will he change his life?”

“Don't know,” said Geralt, putting the saber into its sheath and propping it against the chest. “It's his life and what he does with it is his business. He was tired and aware that his time was running out. He seemed smart enough to learn his lesson.”

“If he ever got here and asked about you...” Dandelion began.

“Don't know why he would, but if so, tell him whatever you know at the time.” Geralt shrugged. “We parted in peace. I don't need to avoid him.”

Dandelion nodded and smiled. The nobility of Geralt's heart was the first thing he had noticed in the witcher back when he had first met him. Not only Geralt had saved him from a stupid quarrel and asked for nothing in return, but for twenty-five years of their friendship he’d kept proving that the legends of the witchers being heartless were completely unfounded. Of course, he would deny it. He would try and fight his nature; he would avoid getting involved, claiming indifference and neutrality. But eventually he would always help those in need. He forgave quite easily, rarely sought revenge and never when he was the only one harmed.

Olgierd von Everec also had to see it. Admittedly, he used the witcher, but in the end he knew how to behave honorably.

“You finished thinking?” The dry voice of Geralt snapped him out of his musings. “Because now I really want to sleep.”

“Sure. Good night, my friend,” Dandelion said warmly and left the room. He noticed the look of surprise on Geralt's face, as if the witcher did not expect such a farewell.

Dandelion was sleepy himself, but he managed to go down to the kitchen and order a generous breakfast in seven to eight hours, which was how long Geralt would usually sleep for when he was tired, and in a safe place. Yes, a solid portion of sleep and even more solid breakfast. Maybe a hot bath after breakfast - that was a ritual much more familiar to Dandelion. The noble heart and the heroic soul of the white-haired witcher deserved the best care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos feed the writer!


	3. Monstrum or…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the pogrom in Kaer Morhen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part contains a piece of Andrzej Sapkowski's work, later included in “The Witcher” games.  
> Again, big thanks to [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean), who makes it look like a story written in English and not a Google translation.

Geralt knew that life on the Path would not be easy. People were rarely hostile, but they still did not trust witchers, simply because they looked and behaved different than humans. 

Getting rid of drowners infestation that prevented fishing, or killing ghouls that made it impossible to visit the dead (who often ended up scattered around the area) in a cemetery - the contracts rarely ended with an attempt to cheat a witcher out of the money, and folk often showed genuine, if subdued, gratitude. But nothing more - you did your job, you got the money; now, please, go away.

Witchers were feared, shrouded in an aura of mystery. The poor hid their children from them in the fear that the lack of money meant the child would be taken away as a payment. It was an unfortunate truth, but since there was no one else to hunt monsters, people had no choice but to tolerate witchers.

Geralt, with his white hair and deadly pale face, was met with fear more often than other witchers.  His second round of mutations gave him an advantage, a unique set of skills that made completing more difficult contracts possible. Soon enough, his fame as a monster hunter, and particularly a curse specialist, began to precede him.

Until it hit a wall and shattered.

Geralt had spent seven years on the Path; he gained his collection of scars, got experience, traveled across all the kingdoms of the North. He got used to how people reacted to witchers.  Where his services were not needed, he wouldn't usually have problems riding through the villages, staying in the inns for a meal and a night's rest, before continuing on.

It was a lovely, summer day when he found himself in one of the smaller villages in the lower reaches of Gwenllech that didn't look any different from a dozen others - except for a fact that people disappeared, slamming the shutters closed behind them, the moment he got close. Even the largest building in the village - which was usually either an inn or the house of the village elder - was barricaded.

Geralt stopped his horse at the gates as he began to listen and sniff the air.

An archer was sitting on a tree behind him - probably a local hunter, definitely human,  and clearly experienced, as he did not make a sound; his bow kept at the ready .

The second man, also ready to shoot, sat in the tower of the chapel near the alleged tavern.

“Expecting a bandit attack?” Geralt shouted in the direction of the inn. “Just want to use the inn and talk to the elder. You probably don’t need that wraith by the bridge. Trolls take better care of crossings.”

“Go away, devil’s incarnate, or we’ll deal with you like we dealt with your brother,” a calm voice said behind him.

Geralt felt a chill run down his spine. He did not turn towards the voice.

“Where did he go?” he asked. He did not know which one of his “brothers” the hunter meant, but it did not matter. Only witchers of the Wolf School hunted in Kaedwen.

“Off with you,” the voice growled.

A stone flew from a nearby hut, hit Roach’s side. The grey mare whinnied wildly, and tried to stand on her hind legs, but Geralt barked a command that calmed her down. It was a witcher’s horse, trained in Kaer Morhen, it did not panic too easily.

Geralt spurred her and galloped through the village. The people threw stones, the archers tried to shoot him, but Roach run like the wind. Soon, Geralt left the village behind, but the deep uneasiness remained.

Something wasn’t right.

 

* * *

 

Driven by an instinct, he rode along Gwenllech, towards Kaer Morhen. He had not planned to return to the fortress for the next few months, but on the way he  grew increasingly convinced that the earlier return was necessary .

All settlements reacted to him like the first village; Geralt eventually started to avoid them altogether. Even Ard Carraigh was no better: he was almost lynched at the gates of the capital of Kaedwen.

And he still had no idea why.

He found traces of another witcher, who had a few days of advantage and clearly travelled in the same direction as Geralt.

There was no place to buy supplies; hunting for game kept him alive, and Roach's needs were simple. In addition, he collected herbs and even resorted to theft - he sneaked into a village when everyone was asleep, “visited” the blacksmith and stables, took what he needed and disappeared like a ghost. It weighed him down: he had always tried to live honestly; he liked to bathe in hot water from time to time and eat a piece of finely roasted meat, and now he could not even risk starting a fire. Fortunately, the summer was warm, so at least he didn't have to battle the cold, although he felt the cool breeze more often the closer he was to the Grey Mountains.

He caught up with the other witcher by chance, two weeks after the first incident. Witchers were just as good at hunting as at hiding their tracks, and Geralt found his kinsman only because  knowing the other's way of thinking, he could anticipate his moves. Geralt himself began avoiding well worn paths three days ago.

The wolven witcher was resting in a small hollow in the mountainside. They were two days away from Kaer Morhen, near the entrance to the pass. The hiding spot was good half day walk from the main road, the path to it leading through rocks and streams: everything that made tracing difficult.

“Eskel,” said Geralt, greeting his brother as he stood before him.

The second witcher lifted his tired eyes; he quickly noticed Roach walking behind Geralt, and the stuffed saddlebags on the horse.

He himself wore the remains of his leather armor, a steel sword on his back, and nothing else.

“What happened?” Geralt asked.

“They took me by surprise, shot my horse, and tried to shoot me too,” said Eskel. He sat huddled under the rocky wall. “I've lost almost everything I had with me. They were pursuing me. I broke my arm.”

Geralt noticed that Eskel’s left forearm was strangely bent.  He must have not been able to set it correctly and now it healed in the wrong position.

“You know what it is all about?” Geralt asked and crouched beside his brother.

“About ‘Monster, or Description of the Witcher’, a lampoon that someone wrote about us - and people believed it in an instant, after years of welcoming us with open arms,” Eskel explained. “Honestly, after all this, I'm afraid to return to Kaer Morhen.”

“We're close,” Geralt reminded him. “Besides, the fortress should be safe. Only a large group of idiots would attack a stronghold full of witchers and wizards.”

“Or a determined group of idiots, with wizards’ support,” said Eskel. He relaxed a bit. “If they wanted to attack the fortress, now would be the best moment. I overheard bits and pieces on the way. I think I saw a smoke beyond the pass a few days ago.”

Geralt bit his bottom lip. Eskel was right: there were relatively few witchers in the fortress during the summer, mainly trainers, a few old masters, those wounded on the Path, some boys before the Trials and students - altogether about sixty people, of whom maybe twenty were fully capable of fighting. The rest of the summer tenants were “civilians”: blacksmiths, stablemen, carpenters and other workers. Fully trained, efficient witchers - and the fortress could house even a hundred of them, aged from twenty to over two hundred years - rarely stayed for the summer. Their resident wizard, Hieronymus, was considered a coward, so he most likely would not have been involved in the defense of the stronghold. Mages kept changing; Geralt remembered several who treated witchers with contempt, despite taking part in their creation. It would have been all too easy to pay them - or even ask them to take part in the attack on the fortress.

Geralt felt a chill again. He wanted to move on, immediately, but one look at his companion was enough to change his mind. Eskel was in a poor shape, cold and hungry; it was necessary to break his arm again and set it properly. Geralt still had all his belongings with him and despite the lack of sleep, he was in good condition.

“We’ll stay here for the night,” he decided. “We both need to rest and we have to take care of your arm.”

“Will you do the honors?” Eskel asked with a pale smile.

“With pleasure,” Geralt said, and  bared his teeth in a grin .

 

* * *

 

It was not pleasant at all, for either of them. Geralt had killed countless monsters, and none of them, not even the most disgusting ones, have ever made him feel sick - unlike Eskel's scream, muffled by a leather strap between his teeth. Broken bones were nothing special during the training, especially after the Trials: repositioned properly, they healed in three days, which the adept devoted to learning theory. But to deliberately break somebody’s bone, especially a person considered a brother - not even a colleague, but a brother, one of the closest people in life - it was a completely different story.

When the bone crunched, they both grew green.

“You all right?” Eskel asked once his arm was immobilised in the right position in a splint made of two branches tied with scraps of material Geralt had dug out from his bags.

“You asking me?” Geralt replied, genuinely surprised. They had  both been silent earlier, during the whole broken arm fixing ordeal.

Eskel only shrugged.

“I have White Gull and celandine, you want some?” Geralt suggested.

“Stupid question…” Eskel murmured.

Geralt quickly searched the bags, that were still strapped to Roach’s saddle. He did not remove the harness in case of a quick evacuation. There was some risk of meeting wolves and bears, although it was more likely that the game was heavily depleted by the numerous inhabitants of the nearby fortress. Geralt, however, was still uneasy, acutely aware of the danger lurking around.

He gave Eskel healing herbs and the analgesic potion. He also pulled out his supplies of pork fat and dried meat, which he had been rationing for several days. He unpacked the bedding and blanket, handed it to his brother.

“Get some sleep,” he ordered.

“You've been on your feet for several days,” said Eskel, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.

“I have all my things, not to mention my bones are still in one piece. Will wake you in a few hours,” Geralt assured him.

Eskel leaned sideways, as if deflated; he slid down to the bedding and fell asleep immediately.

 

* * *

 

“You said you’d wake me up,” Eskel protested the next morning. He sat up slowly. He was stiff; there was a dull pain in his left arm, although he felt all his fingers for the first time since the break, which was comforting.

Geralt looked over his shoulder. He sat hunched at the mouth of the hollow, his arms hugging his knees.

“Aye,” he agreed. He waved his hand towards the bag of food. “Eat something, we should get moving soon.”

“What's the plan?” Eskel asked and reached into the bag. He did not have the strength to get angry at Geralt for guarding their camp for the whole night. Having the comfort of  someone watching over him, Eskel was able to sleep for several hours at a stretch for the first time in more than a week. Potions, herbs, food, some warmth and he felt much better. The witcher's body was able to bear a lot, but it needed fuel for regeneration.

“We still have two days to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt said. He stood up and stretched his stiff muscles. “I suggest we just go, possibly hiding tracks, until we fall or it gets dark.”

“On foot?” Eskel asked, biting off a piece of pork fat.

“Roach can’t carry us both,” Geralt confirmed. “I rode her in such conditions many times, she can handle it without passengers. One of us can ride her when we get tired.”

He preferred not to tell Eskel that the forest was deadly quiet all night. That in the middle of the night he smelled a very weak scent of smoke and roasted meat. That after a few years of fighting the world’s most powerful monsters, he was scared of what he would find in the fortress.

After fifteen minutes, they started on their journey, carefully removing any traces of their little camp.

They did not talk much; Eskel only told in detail what had happened to him; it turned out that he had been sitting in that hollow for two days, having no strength left for further march.

On the way, Geralt showed off his accuracy and killed several hares with his dagger. They flayed them in the evening and ate the meat raw. They still avoided starting a fire, even though they did not encounter even the slightest tracks of people on the way.

The next day they would reach the fortress. Neither of them commented on that.

They were taking turns guarding the camp that night: Eskel recovered enough to take watch, and Geralt appreciated the opportunity to rest. They set off at dawn. They returned to the road, but they were walking on the side, vigilantly, trying to leave no tracks and make no noise. Geralt shared sword oils with Eskel, who lost his silver blade and could only fight with steel. However, there was no one to fight.

They spotted the first dead body a kilometer from the fortress.

At first, the corpse looked fresh, but after a moment's inspection they found that it had been here for more than a week, preserved somehow. The closer they were to the fortress, the more corpses lay on the road. At first, there were mainly peasants, but later they also recognized the adepts after the Trials. Teen boys lay with steel swords still squeezed in their thin hands. The peasants died from cut wounds, but some bodies, especially the adepts, had no clear indicators of the cause of death. Many bodies were burned. Many victims still had their eyes open.

“We will have to collect and bury these boys later,” Geralt whispered. He recognized most teenagers: they came to the fortress before he left for the Path.

“Ritual of Detention,” said Eskel suddenly. In an answer to Geralt's questioning gaze, he pointed to the symbols burned behind the ear of one of the boys.

“Damn it,” murmured Geralt.

He did not know how to carry out this ritual, but he heard about it. It kept the soul in the body of the deceased, so that it would turn to nothingness with the decomposing corpse. Witchers were generally non-believers, so the risk of being subjected to it - depriving them of any chance of afterlife offered by any of the local religions - did not bother them. The ritual was important for believers and witchers were trained to remove it.

Geralt looked at the teenager's dead face. He knew him, maybe not by name, but he remembered the ten-year-old who spent almost every free moment by the shrine of Melitele he had built himself in the castle's basement, offering thanks for surviving the Trials.

One night Eskel had to carry him upstairs, because the boy had lost consciousness from exhaustion.

Eskel and Geralt looked at each other, pulled their swords out of their scabbards and went up the road. Geralt kept glancing at Roach and focusing on his medallion, but the behavior of both the horse and the magic pendant did not suggest danger or traces of magic.

The closer they were to the fortress, the louder the silence rang in their ears.

Finally, they saw the limestone walls of the castle where they grew up. It was an afternoon,  and normally at this hour the torches would already be burning on the walls - but they did not see any signs of life.

The drawbridge was lowered; so was the gate, but the hole blown in it was so big that it was possible to ride a horse through. The edges of the hole were singed.

They approached along the roadside, hiding under the trees. Roach was quiet, as if she sensed that she should not make noise.

They glanced at the signal tower on the high rock, visible from the road. It was dark, too, though they both remembered that Hieronymus spent most of his time there.

Geralt stopped Roach under the trees, near the bridge. He looked around, reached out with his senses. He glanced once more at Eskel, then ran across the bridge on light feet, straight towards the gate; the second witcher was close behind. They went through the hole in the grate and, hiding in the niches of the gatehouse, they reached the lower courtyard.

The smell of stale blood and burned meat hit their nostrils. The courtyard was already dark, surrounded by tall walls. There were no horses in the stable by the gate, the hay laid down for them was burned. The ground was dotted with scorched circles. There was no scent of decay.

Eskel patted Geralt’s shoulder and pointed to some detail under the wall. Geralt narrowed his eyes and spotted a pile of burned bodies. He glanced toward the ramp to the higher level, and there he noticed a burned corpse.

“Wizards,” he murmured. “The attackers had magical support.”

“The wards were disabled, you noticed?” Eskel asked.

Geralt nodded. The fortress had always been protected: their resident sorcerers had set up wards, which could alert of a threat and had served as the first line of defence. They had always been felt as a light magic aura; they could be bypassed with an appropriate amulet - a witcher's medallion in their case - or it was possible to turn them off, but it required considerable skills and knowledge.

The fortress had been attacked with the help of powerful wizards.

There was not even a trace of that magic left in the yard now.

They ran quickly up the ramp to the middle courtyard. They stopped dead in their tracks.

The entire square was strewn with burned and chopped bodies. Their condition made it impossible to even count them. Whatever miracle prevented them from having an infestation of necrophages yet, they did not know.

“Fuck,” said Eskel.

Geralt stared at the bodies and felt his heart hammering in his chest.

“Anyone left alive?” he whispered. He could not make any louder sounds.

Eskel only shook his head. It did not seem that the attackers had planned to leave anyone alive, and the inhabitants of the fortress clearly had defended themselves vehemently.

The bodies hung from the walls, the scaffolding, the tree branches, laid here and there on the ground, left in a position in which they had died. Not all of them were burned, some were recognizable, preserved or not: there were no flies on the latter ones, as if all the life in this fortress had been destroyed.

They looked toward the top gate: it was closed. They glanced at each other again and stumbled towards the massive, wooden door.

Geralt first reached out to try to open the gate, but suddenly he felt a stroke of magic. He heard a whiz in his ears and was thrown back onto the ground; he hit the back of his head and saw stars.

“Geralt!” Eskel exclaimed, running to his brother; at the same time, he drew the Quen sign over them and aimed his sword at the gate.

The door opened slowly. A man, much older than them, stood there, a sword in his hand. When he saw them, he lowered his blade.

“It's you,” he said simply. He was tired.

“Vesemir,” Geralt recognized him, as he staggered to his feet.

He tried to quickly assess the old master's condition, but with witchers, and especially so old, it was so that until they fell, they looked normal.

“Well, now I know that at least three of us survived,” said Vesemir.

The sword slipped from his numb hand. The old witcher collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

 

* * *

 

There were only single bodies behind the upper gate; and none inside the keep. Geralt guessed that Vesemir spent the days after the pogrom - it could not be called otherwise - on burying bodies, starting from the upper courtyard, working his way to the lower courtyards. He burned the pyres at night so that the smoke over the pass would not attract attention.

Together with Eskel, they carried the old master inside the keep and laid him on the bed he was clearly occupying.

“Apparently, we all act the same,” murmured Geralt. He sat down next to the bed and pulled out his supplies: herbs and potions. “We keep going for as long as necessary, until we get a chance for a proper rest.”

“The pogrom was over a week ago; he looks like he hasn’t slept since,” said Eskel. He looked around the main hall. It was reasonably tidy. Most of the furniture was gone: either Vesemir sacrificed them to pyres or they were destroyed during the pogrom. There was a single table and a bench left.

The murals were stained with blood. The library had collapsed: loose, mostly scorched pages from old volumes were still scattered on the floor, no longer recoverable.

They quickly realized that of the castle's inhabitants, only Vesemir survived. They suspected that no one had such luck in the watchtower and the bastion; if anyone had been still alive, they would’ve made their way back to the main fortress by now.

“Going to look around,” Geralt said and stood up. Eskel only nodded and sat in his place.

Geralt walked through the devastated kitchen, towards the stairs to the tower. First, he went down to the lab, but piles of stones blocked his way. The walls and the vault were solid enough so they did not collapse, but it would take several years to clear the passage, unless they decided to leave it as it was.

Geralt could only see that all devices were thoroughly broken, the library and their small cultivation of herbs and grasses for the Trials completely burned.

He climbed slowly upstairs to the apartment floor.

He saw that here, too, the battle had been fought for here and there a spot of soot or blood was visible.

His legs carried him in the direction of his room, which he had taken after officially  becoming a witcher. As he walked, he kept checking other bedrooms. Every room was in ruins: full of destroyed furniture and shredded clothes.

His room, although it did not have a tenant in the summer, was also robbed. He didn’t keep anything valuable here, as free bedrooms would have been available to anyone, even though the castle was so big that every witcher coming back from the Path had his own corner.

His small and cold four walls now housed a shattered bed and a trunk, in which he kept all things he wasn’t taking with him when leaving in the spring. He had a small collection of books here; they shared the fate of the other volumes in the castle.

Geralt stepped into the room and sat on the floor. Of the papers scattered on the floor, two caught his attention.

One was a drawing. It was actually his portrait, drawn in coal on a piece of parchment.

Geralt could not draw, and certainly wouldn’t have been able - nor would’ve wanted - to create such self-portrait.

Someone... someone had put a lot of effort into this drawing. Geralt had no idea who. Which of the more than a hundred tenants of the castle had felt the need to immortalize his pale face with a large nose and freshly regrown white hair? He had not posed for anyone, so someone had either observed him closely or had drawn from memory. Who...?

Focused on the other scrap of paper, he did not hear Eskel enter the room and crouch behind him.

“Your hair has grown,” said Eskel simply.

“Observant like a witcher,” murmured Geralt, still reading.

“In the spring you looked  as if a lightning hit that mop of yours , but now I don’t know what you are trying to achieve.”

Geralt smiled with one corner of his mouth. True, it had been a few months after his mutations when his hair began to grow back, scattered in irregular patches on his scalp. Only the memory remained of its natural color; until it grew thicker, Geralt shaved his head to the skin. A few years passed before something resembling normal hair appeared on his head. Then he stopped cutting it, although he shaved his facial hair. When he went out on the Path this spring, white strands began to cover his ears. At the moment his hair reached his jawline; it was relatively dense and straight, looking normal except for the color - if someone did not know that before the Changes it had been chestnut and curly.

“What do you have there?” Eskel asked.

Geralt glanced at him over his shoulder.

“Interesting text,” he replied and began to read: “Verily, there is nothing so hideous as the monsters, so contrary to nature, known as witchers for they are the offspring of foul sorcery and devilry. They are rogues without virtue, conscience or scruple, true diabolic creations, fit only for killing. There is no place amidst honest men for such as they. And Kaer Morhen, where these infamous beings nestle, where they perform their foul practices, must be wiped from the surface of this earth, and all trace of it strewn with salt and saltpetre.”

Eskel was silent for a moment.

“What is it, a souvenir?”

Geralt shrugged, put the writing down and grabbed the drawing again.

“Remember anyone who could have drawn it?” he asked, showing Eskel the parchment.

“A talented, quiet admirer,” Eskel suggested after a moment of hesitation.

Geralt sighed, put down the picture, and looked around his ruined room.

“The entire fucking castle,” he began. “Everyone except Vesemir. Everybody. Witchers, teachers, children, adepts. Everyone fucking died because of one libel. The library is destroyed, the herbs, the lab, all the notes by the wizards  who had carried out Trials, and Changes too. You know what it means?”

“That the survivors are the only witchers left in this world and there will be no more of them,” said Eskel calmly.

“We're a dying species,” Geralt summed up. He looked at the drawing again, then folded it carefully, put it in his pants pocket, and left the room without looking back.

 

* * *

 

Eskel's arm was still healing, and Vesemir was in such bad condition - on top of the wounds he suffered, he was exhausted, dehydrated and undernourished - that Geralt declared that he would take care of remaining funerals himself. Vesemir described to him his routine and delegated this unpleasant duty without a word of protest, which only further proved how tired he must have been.

As he dived into the food supplies that Geralt and Eskel had brought with them, Eskel lead panicking Roach through the battlefield in the courtyards and tied her to a stake near the entrance to the keep, where there were no corpses, and some grass left.

Geralt spent the whole afternoon gathering the bodies from the upper and middle courtyards into piles outside the fortress’ walls, separating the defenders from the attackers, wherever possible. He recognized the witchers by the remnants of the medallions, often embedded in burned skin. The "civilian" workers of the fortress, if Geralt was able to recognize them, had their own pile. They were often women and young men from the nearest village. The settlement was practically dependent on the witchers, so the villagers learned to tolerate their alienness and vowed to keep the location of the fortress secret. Geralt knew that their contribution to the existence of the Wolf School should be honored.

If there was a symbol of the Rite of Detention on some corpse, Geralt removed it right away before moving the body. The procedure was quite short, but it always left a strange taste in the mouth.

It was a long and tiring process, but by midnight, he prepared three pyres and cleared the path to the lower courtyard.

The sky was starlit, the night was cool and dark: the perfect weather for yet another funeral.

He stood in front of the witchers' pyre with a torch in his hand and he did not know what to do with himself. He has not attended a funeral yet in his life. He knew their customs on such occasions, but to do it himself...

“Just ignite the torch and light the pyre,” he heard Eskel's voice behind him.

Geralt nodded, lit the torch with Igni, and touched it to the wood, previously soaked with oil. He took a step back.

“According to the custom, you should say a few good words about the deceased,” Vesemir joined them. He looked a little better after a few hours’ rest. "But we rarely bury our own, and it rarely has any meaning, so…” he paused and pointed to the burning pyre.

Geralt did not answer. He approached the second pyre on which the non-witcher workers of the fortress lay.

“For your service in our walls. May your gods welcome you,” he murmured. He felt Eskel’s and Vesemir's gaze on his back, as he set the pyre on fire.

The pile of attackers’ bodies he lit without a word. He extinguished the torch and stood for a moment, looking at the flames. When he turned around, Eskel and Vesemir were no longer there: they had returned to the castle. 

Geralt did not feel like following them; he sat on the grass, hugged his knees, and remained there for the whole night, watching the pyres burn under the stars, until only ash was left.

 

* * *

 

After several more nights filled with funeral fires, they noticed that they did not have the appetite for roasted meat. They expected Vesemir to comment on their fussing, but he simply agreed with them.

Eskel went hunting, and although the valley was dead silent, and Vesemir warned him about the stink of dead fish from the pond, he managed to catch some hares and deer, and he killed two wolves. Life was returning to the witcher valley. Nature had always been more stubborn than people trying to destroy it would want.

They did not roast the meat. Instead, some of it made it into a broth with vegetables from their garden; the rest was smoked. They set a plan of action: first, bury all those who died in the castle, then find and bury the bodies of witchers who died outside the fortress. The attackers who fell during the pogrom were to stay where they were slain as a warning. Then they would slowly tidy up the castle and prepare it for the winter. Vesemir hoped that more witchers survived on the Path and that they would return to the fortress. There was no way that Geralt and Eskel would leave the castle again this year. It was late summer, they had a lot of time, but their resources were limited.

Vesemir refused to tell them exactly what had happened; he only stated that he had survived by mistake.

After the funerals were done, they got to work. First, they repaired the grating at the bottom gate, then they began to clean the inside of the keep. The sound of working saws and hammers rang throughout the courtyards and the main hall. They worked from dawn to dusk. Over time, the old castle slowly became habitable again. They made a few beds, benches and tables. They cleaned up the vegetable garden, stables and workshops. Finally, the time came to repair the distillers; soon not only the potions started to come out. They did not leave their valley at all.

As months had passed, with the three of them alone in the fortress, they began to wonder if they were the only survivors of the Wolf School.

Finally, autumn came. Soon after, the snow started to fall.

And other witchers also started to return.

Geralt was quietly pleased to see Lambert, who had a decidedly poor start of his career as a witcher: it was his first year on the Path. Berengar returned, although it was not clear why, as his hatred for the fortress was well known. A few slightly older witchers also returned. Of the "youth" no one came back, except for Lambert. Of the old masters too: most of them died in the fortress anyway.

In the end, twelve witchers returned for the winter.

Twelve witchers from over a hundred, who set out on the Path last spring.

Everyone brought something with them, as if they had known there wouldn’t have been much left in the stronghold: tools, food, herbal supplies, books. A few had saved their horses, so Roach had company.

The people came to pay homage to the fallen ones, bowing their heads over the common grave, and then they joined forces, preparing the fortress and its inhabitants for the incoming winter.

 

* * *

 

Seventy years later, only three Wolf Witchers remained: Geralt, Eskel and Lambert.

Geralt was the last to remove any remaining traces of their presence from the castle. From 1278, Kaer Morhen was finally given up to nature, stripped of equipment and books. The Wolf School lived only in the form of three medallions, resting on three scarred chests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About Geralt’s hair: I know some people think that after the second round of mutations Geralt’s hair continued to grow normally, but white, leaving him both brown/red/whatever-your-headcanon-is and white haired for a while. In my headcanon Trials and Changes make future witchers lose their hair completely, like patients during chemotherapy. The hair just grows back as it was before the Trials, with Geralt as the exception.  
> I’m sure he was prepared to walk around with a bald head for the rest of his life.  
> For those who struggled with Google Translation of the original (I truly admire your efforts): the word “whore” is a direct translation of the most popular Polish swearword, “kurwa”, which also often serves as a vulgar comma and can be translated into “fuck!”.  
> That’s all for your Polish lesson today, please leave your comments and kudos below ;)


	4. The pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You really think this is about it? That I would leave him there?” Lambert asked sharply.  
> “I don't fucking know what to think,” Eskel barked. “You bitch about your fate all the time, sometimes I think you’d like to finish what Savolla and Javed had started.”  
> “Fuck, Eskel, I’m bitching, but we’re brothers,” said Lambert empathically. “I’ll go with you, if only to be able to keep bitching to that damned warrior for justice for trolls.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEHOLD! The “Wataha”!  
> Seriously, I’m proud of this one. Sure, it needed a solid workover, it wasn’t perfect even in Polish, but hey, I can find joy in my own creation ;)  
> Set after the end of “Wild Hunt”, when Radovid wins the war (during my first playthrough I ignored the quests regarding him). Geralt gets his ass kicked (but we only see the result), there are some swearwords.  
> Because Geralt is very whumpable. It's nice to put him back together afterwards.

Thanks to his fame, Dandelion managed to create a safe zone in his inn. People who were a potential objects of interest for the temple guards or witch hunters, unless they were burdened with serious accusations, could take refuge in the Chameleon; the hunters and guards themselves mostly avoided the place. All quarrels and brawls were quickly stopped by Zoltan, or Geralt, if he was present, or the people of Whoreson Jr., otherwise known as Dudu.

As a result, the inn became a meeting point for the non-humans. In time, witchers from different schools started to visit it, too, and it was a default place to meet for Wolven witchers, whenever they were in the Novigrad area. Eskel and Lambert usually avoided big cities, so the location of the inn suited them perfectly: they didn't have to venture too deeply into the city - not to mention a direct passage from the basement to city sewers (found by Triss, cleared of monsters by Geralt, hidden from view by a large cupboard), that only added to the appeal of the Chameleon as a refuge. Dandelion also offered cheap food and accommodations, and even though the witchers still didn't understand the friendship between Geralt and the bard, they happily benefited from it.

The Chameleon was where the message from Dijkstra reached Eskel and Lambert. The witchers had been resting in the inn since the prior day, and they planned to leave by dawn.

Two vials with some potion were attached to the note.

They knew Geralt had used to be in touch with the former Redanian superspy, but they hadn't met him themselves; they were surprised Dijkstra wanted to talk to them. Scepticism and caution finally lost to curiosity, though: they took their swords and a few pieces of basic equipment, and went to Sigi Reuven's bathhouse.

From the moment they had entered the city the previous day, it had been obvious that the atmosphere of wary caution got significantly heavier since their last stay. Every newcomer without a pass had been thoroughly searched and questioned. Since the witchers hadn’t had the passes, they had been forced to find one of entry points to the city sewers and had reached the Chameleon that way.

Now they went to the basement, removed the cupboard that hid the hole in the wall, and went down to the dark, wet underground.

When they reached the greenish fumes swirling above the water, they glanced at each other, drank the potions they had been sent, winced, cursed the awful taste of the liquid, and carried on.

The moment they saw the rock troll, guarding a huge breach in the basement wall of the bathhouse, Lambert moved to take out his silver sword, but Eskel stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Do not fucking tell me that you, too…” Lambert started. The kindness with which Geralt treated trolls was one of the stranger features of their white-haired brother.

“Shut up,” Eskel barked and approached the troll.

The creature bowed to them with troll-typical awkwardness and directed them forward without any sign of aggression.

The huge posture of Sigismund Dijkstra was waiting for them in the bathhouse’s basement. The man stood with his arms crossed, looking at them coldly.

“I’ve never met other witchers before,” he began, watching as they climbed through the hole in the wall. “I always thought that white hair are closely connected to your line of work.”

“No, but it’s normal that you average the whole group based on what you know,” Eskel replied, dusted off his hands and stood before him.

Dijkstra raised an eyebrow: he didn’t expect such an answer from a man who was considered nothing more than a dumb killer.

“You mean Geralt is special?” Dijkstra asked.

“In more ways than one,” Lambert barked. He stood behind Eskel and crossed his arms, too. “You mind telling us what you want? I get it’s not about a tea party.”

Dijkstra leaned slightly forward, his hands clasped together in front of him. “Gentlemen,” he started in a serious tone, “I was notified this morning that our mutual acquaintance, Geralt of Rivia, was arrested three days ago by the joined forces of temple guards and witch hunters. He’s imprisoned on Temple Island. I don’t know the state he’s in and we can only guess the plans the Church has for him. I only know where he’s kept, and that he’s alive. For now. Interested?”

 

* * *

 

They sat in Dijkstra’s office and listened carefully, every now and then asking questions, as the spy described the situation: where Geralt was, how to get to him and what was probably waiting for them on the way.

It looked bad. Geralt was kept in the prison block in the heart of the Temple Island, isolated, guarded day and night, and most likely tortured.

The longer they talked, the more hopeless their rescue plans seemed to Eskel; but he also became more and more determined. It was obvious that a great effort was put into minimizing Geralt’s chances of escape - and Eskel wanted to rush to help his brother all the more.

He wasn’t so sure about Lambert. The younger witcher was quieter than usual. He was staring at Dijkstra, but the man, used to wary eyes - including those of a witcher - remained indifferent.

“Any additional questions?” Dijkstra asked, once he finished presenting the situation, and the outline of a plan.

He interlocked his fingers and leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. The witchers sat before him, and between them lay worryingly incomplete plans of the prison.

“Why does it seem to me that you were involved in Geralt’s arrest?” Lambert asked coldly, still looking into Dijkstra’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” Dijkstra replied with a shrug. “Is paranoia also written into your line of work?”

“Or is it about our ungraciously ruling king Radovid smelling out your schemes?” Lambert suggested. They both had heard about the failed assassination attempt on the king’s life. “He started to threaten you, so you gave him a scapegoat. And since Geralt is more useful alive, you’re sending us to get him out, so you can exploit him again later.”

“There’s no guarantee that after all this Geralt would be useful to me in any way, so I’d like to keep my future plans for him to myself,” Dijkstra replied, his voice still cold. If the sharp look from two pairs of amber, cat-like eyes made any impression on him, he hid it well. “There will be no debt of gratitude, since it will be you who will get him out. Treat it like an act of goodwill from my side.”

Lambert snorted, clearly showing what he thought about the sincerity of this declaration.

“Why us?” Eskel finally asked, dropping his gaze to the map. He didn’t believe in the spy’s good intentions either, but he decided to take what he was given.

“Because you have the best chance of success,” Dijkstra admitted, more sincerely this time. It was a simple and obvious answer.

“Why him?” Eskel asked, still staring at the map.

“Because he’s a witcher who tends to step on the wrong toes,” Dijkstra replied, spreading out his arms. He must have sensed that Eskel was more willing to cooperate, and he mostly addressed him. “You can ask why they did it quietly. My guess is that he’s too popular thanks to his chivalry and the songs of his bard-buddy, so they will finish him off in the prison instead of a stake on the main square, for the enjoyment of the crowd.”

Lambert stared into the round face of Dijkstra for a few seconds, then stood up and left the office.

Eskel, slightly startled, followed him a second later.

He found Lambert in the basement they had used to get into the bathhouse, hands on his hips, head bowed and breathing harshly, like he was trying to keep his anger in check.

In the distance, the troll was diligently wandering the sewers.

Eskel stood in front of Lambert. “What is it?” he asked anxiously.

“Got pissed off,” Lambert admitted through clenched teeth. Eskel took a deep breath and said:

“You know well that if it was about any of us, Geralt would help us without hesitation.”

He tried to read Lambert’s expression; unfortunately, all of them had pretty good Gwent faces, although only Geralt didn’t blush.

Lambert flinched and looked into his eyes.

“You really think this is about it? That I would leave him there?” he asked sharply.

“I don’t fucking know what to think,” Eskel barked.

Lambert was surprised: of all of them Eskel was the most reticent and almost never cursed, unless he was drunk.

“I have no idea,” Eskel continued. “You bitch about your fate all the time, sometimes I think you’d like to finish what Savolla and Javed had started.”

Lambert bridled up, but Eskel went on, almost desperate:

“We knew we likely wouldn’t die in our own bed, but it probably wasn’t about dying on a stake or in prison, but in battle, or on the Path. All I know is I will go get him out, with or without you. And I will die by his side, because he fucking deserves a better death.”

“Fuck, Eskel, I’m bitching, but we’re brothers,” said Lambert empathically and spread out his arms. “We’re on the same boat. I should be pissed that you can even think like that about me,” he added and stabbed Eskel’s chest with a finger. “I’ll go with you, if only to be able to keep bitching to that damned warrior for justice for trolls.”

“Well put,” said a calm, feminine voice. Two familiar figures stepped from behind a column.

“Triss,” Eskel recognized one of them.

“Keira!” exclaimed Lambert, surprised.

Both sorceresses wore long coats, concealing their shapes and clothes. The witchers had no idea how they got here, they sensed no traces of magic. Novigrad was a dangerous place for them in particular.

After a quick greeting they went further into the basement, to avoid vigilant ears of the troll, and Dijkstra.

“We’ve heard about Geralt,” Triss started, her tone serious. “We know Dijkstra’s plan, more or less, but I don’t think—”

“—it has a full chance of success and that following it to the letter is a good idea,” Keira finished and shook her head.

“Yeah, especially the part with getting Geralt out of prison and running through the whole Temple Island to the landing in the cave,” Eskel agreed. “We have to assume that Geralt won’t be able to help us; we might even have to carry him the whole way.”

“Besides, the whole prison block is most likely surrounded by a strong anti-magic aura,” Triss added. “That’s why Keira and I can’t help you directly. You should be careful when casting your Signs, too, because they probably won’t work, and trying to use magic may alert the guards or even render you helpless. But we can secure the escape route, which is the weakest part of Dijkstra’s plan.”

The witchers nodded in agreement.

“I have a suggestion, but you probably won’t like it very much,” Triss added with a small smile.

 

* * *

 

The witchers set off as soon as a more detailed plan was established.

They handed their silver swords to the sorceresses, and moved the sheaths with steel blades from their backs to waist belts, as a sword on the back was one of the characteristics of witchers. They didn’t give up their medallions though, despite Triss voicing her worry over their interaction with the anti-magic aura.

“Merigold, the medallion itself doesn’t produce magic,” Lambert claimed dryly. “It helps to sense it and nothing else.”

“What about that rumor that says a witcher can’t cast Signs without his medallion?” Triss asked, slightly irritated by Lambert’s patronizing tone.

Lambert glanced at Eskel. Eskel shrugged.

“No comment,” he said.

He liked Triss more than Lambert did, but he didn’t trust Keira. He preferred to dodge the question instead of openly telling them the truth, or lying.

The blond sorceress frowned. Eskel didn’t want her to know that the thing with the medallion was created so that people saw it as the witchers’ weak point - a weak point they could then use to their advantage. The medallion was their guild mark, it allowed to recognize the school the witcher came from, but it was mainly a helpful tool, not something essential to their work.

In the end, they didn’t give up the medallions, although they bound them to their belts; that way they remained by hand, but invisible to others.

Just before they left, Keira cast an illusion on them: they now had normal, human eyes and scarless faces. Eskel - currently hazel-eyed - looked slightly as if he had a partial facial paralysis, because of the extent of the damage; Lambert's eyes were now green. When Keira showed them the results of her illusion, both of them hid their bewilderment and didn't comment on their appearance. They surely didn’t look like witchers now and that was the point.

The spell was supposed to work only until they entered the zone protected by the anti-magic aura.

The four of them went back to the bathhouse; they met Dijkstra by the exit.

The man gave the sorceresses a wary glance, but didn’t comment on their presence. He removed two scraps of paper from his pocket.

“You’ll likely need it to get to the Temple Island. I hope you remember the route.”

Eskel took the safe conducts. Between him and Lambert, they had decided that due to his calmer demeanor, he would be the leader of their little mission. Storming the prison with a battle cry and a sword in hand was very Lambert-style, but would likely end with an ignominious defeat and probably further repressions towards the witchers’ friends, real or alleged. It took the younger man only a second of consideration to agree with this reasoning. Eskel could only hope that his companion would be able to keep calm if the need arose.

“And we hope that it’s not a trap set in order for the Church of Eternal Fire to celebrate another victory over the sleazy non-humans,” Lambert replied.

“The success of this godforsaken organization is not on the list of my interests,” Dijkstra drawled.

“I still don’t understand why you get involved in Geralt’s rescue.”

“His life, and the support of those few among his friends, who happen to be influential, can be useful,” Dijkstra admitted. Eskel was quietly impressed by the self-control of the huge man. “And if you were to find traces of the treasury stolen from me a few months ago, I would appreciate the information,” he added, raising his eyebrows.

“Somehow, I don’t believe you,” Lambert said and crossed his arms. “We all are aware that Geralt has friends. So if it’s a trap, if we don’t manage to get him out of there alive and in relatively one piece, be sure that Novigrad will burn, Radovid’s court too, and you’ll be the first to find yourself on that pyre.”

“I can’t be held responsible for the state you’ll find Geralt in,” Dijkstra protested, still calmly.

“But it will be a great pleasure of mine to push onto you the entire responsibility for him being there in the first place. Farewell,” Lambert sneered and headed for the door, Eskel behind him.

The sorceresses glanced at Dijkstra, put the hoods on their heads and set off towards the shore, in the opposite direction than the witchers.

* * *

It went suspiciously easily.

It was dark already, although the hour wasn’t very late. Still, a lot of people were wandering the streets, and the closer to the temple the witchers got, the larger the crowd was; with most of people heading in the same direction. The witchers could only guess that they were going for the evening service.

It was just as well. Two men could easily blend in.

They crossed the St Gregory’s Bridge and followed the believers to the sanctuary.

They knew the layout of the temple by heart. Eskel contemplated going immediately to the tower pointed out by Dijkstra, but the wary gazes the priests gave them made him change his mind. Instead, he joined the believers, gathered around the great fire in the middle of the square. He heard Lambert walking behind him.

He heard his hiss, too, when he knelt with his head bowed, mimicking the believers, and recited, loud enough for others to hear him:

“Eternal fire, fill my heart with valor. Protect me with the strength of the fire in which steel is tempered. Allow me to armor myself against the wicked.”

He was kneeling a little while longer, his head low. After a moment, he stood up and turned, and noticed with satisfaction that the wary looks ceased.

Lambert was kneeling, too, moving his lips silently. When Eskel stood before him, the younger witcher raised his head and saw a one-sided, ironic smile on the partially covered face of his companion.

The wall surrounding the temple square was bathed in shadow, despite the light from the torches on the square. The witchers calmly walked towards the tower that was supposed to lead to the prison under the temple.

When they were far from other people, Eskel whispered to Lambert:

“I had no idea you could control yourself so well.”

He knew that their walk up to this point was a real test for his quick-tempered companion, as Lambert had expressed his hatred for the Redanian religion at every possible opportunity. He wasn’t guilty of open blasphemy yet, but Eskel knew it was just a matter of time. This pretended prayer must have hurt a lot.

“Let’s say I decided to trust you,” Lambert admitted.

Eskel cast him a sidelong glance.

“Of us all, you’re probably the one with the most sense, and without it, we don’t have a chance,” Lambert added.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have your fun later,” Eskel said with a smile.

“I know,” Lambert replied, his voice taking on faint predatory notes.

They were close to their target when the door to the tower opened and a tall priest came out. His long, fair hair covered the right side of his face: it looked intentional.

“Gentlemen, a word, if you please,” the priest called out to them.

Lambert and Eskel glanced at each other and followed the man back to the tower.

Eskel made a quick assessment: the three of them were alone in the room; there was  a second pair of door on the opposite side that likely led to the temple walls.

The priest locked both doors with a key, then held his hand out to the witchers. Eskel gave him the safe conducts from Dijkstra.

The man read the letters, then looked at them warily. Eskel sensed Lambert growing tense behind him.

“I understand that gentlemen came for the prisoner? It’s too late for you to be allowed to enter the prison with these documents,” the priest said calmly, with no trace of hostility, but Lambert was already on the edge, ready to attack at any moment.

The priest noticed it, smiled with one corner of his mouth. He pulled two letters from the folds of his robe.

“You will therefore need those,” he said and gave the letters to Eskel.

The witcher glanced at the papers. He barely managed to keep his face impassive: the contents, seals and signatures gave them the direct access to Geralt.

The witcher slowly looked up at the priest’s face. Under his long hair, a long scar was visible on his right cheek, all the way to his eyebrow; the old wound was serious enough to have damaged the eye.

The priest smiled again, as if he could read their minds, as if he knew they hadn’t expected that.

“Give him greetings from Dudu,” he said.

Behind Eskel’s back, Lambert relaxed, but not fully.

“I hope you know how much you risk,” Eskel said slowly. He’d heard the name before. He didn’t know the whole story, but he knew that the man before him wasn’t a priest of the Eternal Fire; that he wasn’t even human.

“Not more and not less than you,” the man said, and gave him the key. “Good luck.”

Eskel nodded, took the wall exit, dragging Lambert with him.

“The fuck was that?!” Lambert whispered harshly.

“A doppler. Shut up and walk.”

“Doppler?!” Lambert hissed.

“Did you really focus only on the killing part during training?” asked Eskel, leading Lambert to another tower. The walls were empty. “Forgot all about rational beings that are considered monsters? You’d kill all changelings? Sign in with the Church of Eternal Fire then, for fuck’s sake,” he barked and opened the door in the second tower.

Three doors lead from there: the one they just entered, the other further to the walls, and one to the underground. They took the latter.

They quickly descended the stone stairs, greeting the guards and priests as they passed. When asked, they showed their letters, but no one was attempting to stop them. Eskel let himself relax a little, his mind drifting to the reason they were here.

Geralt. Goddamned Geralt, always pushing his fingers in the wrong door, getting involved in politics; on one hand, the faithful friend of all the rational beings, the warrior for justice for trolls and the defender of dopplers, on the other a ruthless killer, the Butcher of Blaviken. It seemed as if the entire city kept their fingers crossed for him, damn him.

If only he had gotten involved in politics a little more successfully, he wouldn’t be in prison, in gods only knew what state.

The quiet way he got arrested worked in their favour. Firstly, the witch hunters didn’t seem to be expecting any rescue attempt; secondly, since they had arrested him quietly, they would have to hide the fact that he got out, too.

Eskel couldn’t help but be suspicious of the ease with which their mission was going. He kept expecting something to go wrong. Despite the changes in Dijkstra’s plan regarding the escape route, this part was the most dubious and primarily based on luck, which all of them usually lacked. So far, the guards and priests they met on the corridors paid them little mind outside of the routine checks, but this was far from being over.

They descended to the prison level. They were deep in the heart of the island now, but the air in the corridor was fresh and chilly. There was supposed to be a small cave on the sea level, reachable via a maze of tunnels cut in the solid rock, that granted the inside of the mountain additional access to the outside world. Rumour had it that the well was in fact a large, natural cavern in the very heart of the island, but no-one was able to confirm that.

There was another guard just behind the prison door. He welcomed them amicably, but still asked for the letters of conduct. Eskel gave them to him without a word. The guard went to the table, while the witchers - still under Keira’s spell - looked around the room.

“I don’t know what you might want from the prisoner,” the guard said while reading the letters. “He hasn’t spoken a word since the arrest.”

“We have our ways,” Eskel replied, his voice cold. “And specific questions we need to ask. We won’t leave empty-handed, that’s for sure.”

The guard glanced at them. He noticed the handle of Eskel’s sword under his coat.

“You have experience with witchers, eh?” he asked. “That looks like a witcher’s blade.”

“Their swords are known for their craftsmanship. Why wouldn’t I appreciate a good blade, especially if its previous owner didn’t need it anymore?” Eskel replied without hesitation, not letting his composure falter.

“True, we have to appreciate their toys while we can. They won’t be available for long if the rest of the witchers get caught as easily as this one,” the guard replied and handed the letters back to Eskel. Then he signalled at them to follow him.

Eskel didn’t look at Lambert. He knew what was going on in his companion’s mind anyway. He could only imagine the strain of the younger witcher’s teeth from the constant grinding; he could almost hear the enamel breaking.

He promised himself that once this was over, he’d buy Lambert a bottle of whatever the man would want, even if he would have to go for it to Zerrikania—which would be a very Lambert’s style of request. Eskel knew he'd underestimated his companion, but it wasn’t a moment to show his gratitude for his cooperation. He could only hope that they would be able to talk about it later.

The guard lead them to the thick, steel door.

“Good luck,” he said, bowed his head and returned to his room.

They were left alone.

Eskel put his hand on the medallion by his belt. The wolf head vibrated slightly: they were approaching the anti-magic zone. If there was someone behind this door, their cover would be blown immediately.

Lambert looked around, the muscles of his jaw twitching under the skin. He was so tense he couldn’t utter a word.

Eskel closed his eyes, stood before the door and listened for a few seconds; then he took a deep breath and opened the door. He crossed the threshold. His medallion shook wildly and then stilled.

“This is it,” Lambert said through clenched teeth as the anti-magic aura removed Eskel's illusion charm.

“Stay here unless I call for you,” Eskel ordered, untied the medallion from his belt and put it on his neck, to better sense its vibrations. He went deeper into the corridor. The prison cells were empty, except for one: the Church of Eternal Fire was usually efficient at getting rid of the inconvenient people, so hardly anyone spent here more than a few hours.

Eskel stopped in the cell door; he swallowed audibly when he saw the familiar figure sitting on the cold, stone floor.

Geralt was unconscious, dressed only in what was left of his trousers. His hands were cuffed to the wall above his head; thin, dried rivulets of blood ran from his wrists to his shoulders, one of which was deformed and swollen. All fingers of his left hand and two last of his right were twisted and bluish. His head hung limply; his face, covered by long, dirty hair was also bloody, from his mouth and swollen nose. His feet were cuffed, too, with the chain connected to a hook in the floor; his left foot was also swollen and purple, as if someone had dropped something heavy on it. His harsh, slow breathing could barely be heard in the silence of the cell.

But the most alarming sight was the blood on the back of his head and the dark hue of his veins.

That got Eskel moving; he entered the cell, gently took Geralt’s head in his hands and raised it lightly.

No reaction.

Eskel pressed his fingers onto Geralt’s jugular vein, and counted the pulse for a minute. Geralt’s was even slower than the witcher norm and much weaker.

Eskel gritted his teeth. He opened the cuffs with a knife and gently lowered Geralt’s hands, then he laid him flat on the floor and set the dislocated shoulder while the man was still unconscious. He took a wide piece of cloth from his bag hidden under the coat and bound the set arm to Geralt’s chest.

It was a small consolation that the White Wolf wasn’t suffering from some open and life-threatening wound.

Eskel sighed.

Lambert appeared at the cell door.

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered when he saw Geralt. Eskel only looked at him. “I think I found his stuff. Took what I could,” Lambert added, raising a crossbow in one hand; in the other he held a stuffed bag, and from under his coat two sword handles were visible.

“All right,” Eskel said. “I’ll have to carry him.”

“Don’t you worry, if the aura holds only here, we’ll have all the fun behind the door,” Lambert replied with a predatory smile. “Did you sense the well, too?”

Eskel nodded and positioned himself and Geralt so he could put this tall and lean man over his shoulder.

The echo in the tunnels seemed to have confirmed the rumors about the wide well in the heart of the island. It gave them a potentially much faster route to freedom, albeit not safer.

“We can’t run to the very bottom, too many people on the way,” Eskel said.

Lambert handed him the crossbow, but Eskel declined. Lambert contemplated it for a second and nodded, lowering the crossbow to the floor.

With Geralt on his back, Eskel would have only one free hand, so he wouldn’t be able to reload. He couldn’t fight with a sword, either, but most of the Signs required only one hand to cast, so while Lambert would focus on the direct fight, Eskel would help him with an occasional Aard, protecting himself under Quen. This part was the most difficult - they had to carry Geralt out of prison and get as near an open air as possible.

Eskel took a deep breath.

“Ready?” he asked Lambert.

“As ready as I can be,” the younger witcher replied.

Eskel lifted Geralt and put his unconscious body over his shoulders. He stood up with a grunt.

“Here we go,” he said.

They approached the steel door. Lambert opened it and shot the crossbow at the guard still standing by the table. The man, hit in the neck, fell to the floor without a sound.

Lambert stood at the door for a few seconds, then cautiously left the prison block. His medallion vibrated again, but Keira’s spell didn’t return.

Lambert reloaded the crossbow.

Eskel followed him quietly. Geralt, completely limp on his shoulders, didn’t react in any way to the uncomfortable way in which he was being transported.

The witchers listened closely. The room they were in was empty, and the only way out was the door onto the staircase from the tower they had taken earlier. Said staircase lead to other rooms on the way, it also descended further down.

“Up or down?” Lamber whispered.

“Down, to the well,” Eskel decided.

Lambert didn’t bother mentioning the obvious risk of them ending up in a blind corner.

They went to the door. The way they had come in, they would have been surrounded from both sides; the odds of leaving the the main temple square alive that way were slim, so the underground cave was their only option.

Eskel went first. Their steps were quiet on the stone stairs. Eskel was listening for people coming from below, Lambert secured their backs.

The hour was late, there were very few people on the stairs. For two levels they hadn’t met anyone. Judging by the sounds, other than prison block the utility rooms and servants’ quarters were also located here.

Eskel cast Axii by reflex on the first person they met; he ordered the woman to get into the storeroom and stay there for half an hour. She obediently performed the order.

They kept descending.

The second person they encountered, a priest, screamed at the sight of them, ran into the closest door and barricaded himself. Uncertain voices piped up around, inquiring what had happened.

They started to run as fast as they could. Lambert used Geralt’s crossbow more often, even though he cursed every time he had to reload. Eskel cleared his path with Aard, although he was more and more inclined to use Igni. _Let them feel it._

They passed another door when Eskel’s medallion started to vibrate more intensely with every step he took.

“Go back up!” he shouted. “Behind the first door!”

Lambert turned back without protest and ran through the door, Eskel right behind him. The older witcher put the Yrden Sign on the lock, though the wooden door wouldn't last long.

“Lambert, the anti-magic aura is set downstairs, too,” Eskel explained their retreat in a whisper.

Lambert nodded as he looked around the room they found themselves in.

“Well,” he said with an exhale, “the rumours about the cavern are true.”

Eskel turned from the door.

They were in a large room, used for reloading goods. It was more like a grotto, rising from the sea level thirty meters below them, with the ceiling another twenty meters above; the cave was maybe thirty meters wide. They stood on one of wooden platforms build along the walls, supported by old stone pillars. Wooden cranes hung over the water. Rays of light on the water suggested a connection between the cave and the outside world.

A few people were working here, although now they stopped, surprised by the intrusion.

The door on the other side of the cave opened, and witch hunters ran onto the platform.

“We can’t swim or sail out of here, not with Geralt in this state,” Lambert replied.

None of them even thought about splitting up. One of them would have had a chance of escaping, but it wasn’t what they had come here for.

The witchers glanced at each other. Lambert grasped the handle of the crossbow tighter, Eskel cast Quen Sign. Geralt on his back was still unconscious.

“Any suggestions?” Lambert asked.

“Stay alive for now. We will do something stupid as a last resort,” Eskel replied with a grim smile.

“And what is it that we’re doing right now?” Lambert retorted and shot the first witch hunter running towards them. Then he put the crossbow on his back: he knew that it wouldn’t be of use here, the reloading took too much time.

Eskel pushed Lambert along the platform, towards the sea opening of the cave. He was focused on the medallion and continuously cast Signs. He didn’t even try Axii - the witch hunters were often immune to proper spells, and the witcher magic was known for its simplicity. His fingers started to hurt from the repeated casting of Quen and Aard, which he used to push back the attackers. He was growing tired: the Signs were exhausting and Geralt was weighing him down.

Lambert was spinning around, his sword leaving a trail of sparks in the torch light; blood gushing with every move of his blade. More and more witch hunters joined the others on the platform.

 _Triss, Triss, Triss…_ Eskel repeated in his mind. He cast Signs automatically, his fingers moving without any conscious thought. He focused on the name of the sorceress, still pushing Lambert along the platform. Finally, they ended right above the mouth of the cave. They weren't able to go further anyway.

They were surrounded.

Both priests and witch hunters were swarming on both sides. One of them, who looked like Menge’s successor, stepped forward from the row on Eskel’s left. The rest of the hunters stepped back a little.

The leader, a tall man in his thirties, stopped a few feet away from the witchers, his arms crossed. He raised an eyebrow and smiled with one corner of his mouth.

Lambert responded by casting Yrden around them. Meanwhile Eskel put Geralt’s body down; he positioned the unconscious man upright between himself and Lambert, grasped him firmly around his waist and put Geralt’s healthy arm across his shoulders.

His medallion vibrated wildly.

“Yours too?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Lambert replied. “Either it’s time to go or we just got into an even deeper shit.”

They heard a thunder.

“Dimeritium bombs!” someone shouted.

Lambert lunged towards Geralt, supported him from the other side, then jumped forward with Eskel: straight into the waters of the natural well.

Eskel turned during the jump so that Geralt would land on him, then closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

They landed on grass.

Eskel safe-guarded the fall, but it turned out to be unnecessary, as the landing was mild, from a small height.

The portal closed instantly.

Lambert jumped to his feet and took out his sword, but the area was empty - no drowners, despite the close proximity to the river; no animals or people, no buildings nearby. It was quiet.

Eskel laid Geralt on the grass, stood up, and dusted himself off. He was about to say something, when another portal opened close by: Keira and Triss walked out of it, staggering a little. Triss leaped towards Geralt immediately and started to examine him. Keira held back, looking pale and unsteady.

Lambert eyed her suspiciously.

“What happened to you?”

“Let me think,” Keira said with a hint of anger and started counting on her fingers: “A portal. Big, for three people. Opened from a distance. The localization detected telepathically. Among disruption from the anti-magic aura. Not seen from the place of casting. To a specific, but not well known location. Right after that, a second portal. A shielded one, too. For two people—oh look, I run out of fingers—to the same, still unknown location.”

“All right, all right,” Lambert grumbled with a wave of his hand.

Triss was still examining Geralt.

“The occipital bone is fractured, it looks he has an intracranial bleeding, I don’t know how severe,” she said. “Broken ribs, probably a punctured lung; the foot and fingers are nothing compared to this. Plus, they poisoned him so he couldn’t regenerate,” she finished with a mixture of outrage and worry in her voice. Still kneeling, she leaned back, put her hands on her thighs and looked at Geralt, shaken and lost.

“Can we give him White Honey for that poison?” Eskel asked, kneeling beside her.

“I think so, but it would be better to find some warm and possibly comfortable bed beforehand,” Triss said. “We don’t know how his body would react to such an abrupt elimination of the poison,” she added. Talking seemingly helped her get herself together; she moved behind Geralt’s head and took it in her hands. She closed her eyes and started to mouth out some spell; the places her hands touched started to glow with a warm light.

“Triss, careful, don’t exhaust yourself,” Keira warned.

Eskel and Lambert watched as Geralt frowned, and Triss paled. After ten seconds the sorceress’ nose started to bleed. At the sight, Keira kneeled beside Geralt, put her hand on his forehead and focused.

“Triss, that’s enough,” she declared and pushed Triss away almost brutally; the sorceress landed on the grass with a thump. “You need your strength to portal out of here, remember?”

“I got rid of the bleeding,” Triss said to the witchers and slowly tried to rise. “You’ll have to deal with the rest of the wounds yourself.”

“Don’t worry,” Eskel replied and helped her to stand up; he supported her when she staggered. “A few days of rest, White Honey, a roof overhead, carefully dosed Swallow and Geralt will be up and running in no time.”

“And where will you stay?” Triss asked sceptically. “You need to avoid strangers.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Eskel assured her. “We’re not far from Roche’s partisans base, maybe they’ll help. If they’re gone, there will be a cleared out cave left behind. That’ll be enough.”

Keira gave the witchers their silver swords back; until now she had them attached to her belt. Eskel took his blade and passed Lambert’s to him.

“Come on, Triss, we need to assess the damage in Novigrad,” Keira said.

“Check if Dandelion and his inn are all right, if you can,” Eskel said. “Everyone knows these two are friends, it would be bad if…”

“Don’t worry Eskel, we’ll take care of it,” Triss assured him. “You take care of him,” she added, nodding at still unconscious Geralt.

Eskel only nodded. The sorceresses opened another portal and then they were gone.

Lambert and Eskel stood over Geralt's unconscious body for a while, looking around and glancing at each other. Now that the adrenaline wore off, they both felt tired, their minds blank. And it wasn’t the end of the adventure: they had to find a safe place and take care of Geralt’s wounds.

“Fuck, we survived,” Lambert summed up the last few hours. “I’ll go look for something to make a stretcher.”

Eskel nodded and crouched over Geralt. He removed his bag with dressings, although he couldn’t do much before they found a bed. At least Geralt’s state didn’t worsen; his pulse even strengthened a little.

Focused on his brother, he heard the approaching steps only once it was too late to hide: he was surrounded. He jumped to his feet, his steel sword in his hand, and moved to shield Geralt.

“Well, well, well,” said a familiar, female voice. “One witcher is said to bring bad luck, two of them is an inevitable catastrophe, and here we have three Wolves. It’s like a pack.”

A small, slim woman with short, blond hair stepped in front of the row of soldiers. She wasn’t armed, she wore her usual shirt open in front all the way down to her navel, and familiar blue colors.

“Ves,” Eskel remembered her name, but didn’t lower his sword. He had no idea how the woman would react to them.

“Eskel the witcher,” Ves greeted him. “We found your friend. What are you doing here?”

“Geralt got into deep shit and we had to get him out,” Eskel explained, pointing to his unconscious brother. “He’s wounded; we still need help. We hoped we’d hide in your cave.”

“Damned mutants!” shouted someone from the unit.

“Silence!” Ves ordered sharply.

She approached Geralt; Eskel stepped back. She kneeled by the wounded man and assessed him quickly.

“Help make a stretcher,” she quietly told her soldiers. “We’ll take him to our hideout; his brothers come with us.”

Some of the soldiers tried to protest, but three others went to help. Lambert joined them soon, carrying two long, straight branches. They quickly made the stretcher and laid Geralt on it. Eskel and Lambert grabbed the handles; they were uneasy with the fact that both their hands were occupied and they couldn’t defend themselves in case of any trouble, but Ves had good control over her unit and nobody threatened them.

The unit marched through the forest, towards the hills. Someone ran ahead to notify Roche. The man was waiting for them a few dozen meters from the hideout, standing in the middle of the trail with his arms crossed.

“I don’t know if I should let you in,” he said.

“And who’s supposed to know?” asked Eskel from the front of the stretcher; he was so tired he got angry quicker than usual.

They stopped in front of Roche. Lambert lowered the handles to the ground.

“Honorable Temerian soldiers; fucking whoresons, the lot of you,” Eskel continued. Roche tensed visibly, but Eskel kept talking: “Pitiful brothers in arms. Geralt stood you up so you won’t help him now? He’ll owe you more, and there will actually be something to collect next time you come up with another stupid idea.”

“You’re not too good at convincing people,” Roche muttered, but didn’t step back.

“Because I’m fucking tired after getting him out of the witch hunters’ prison,” Eskel admitted, lowering the handles of the stretcher to the ground. “I’ve never been a diplomat and I’m tired of this talking. Want me to ask for mercy? He’s fucking wounded. We need to get him detoxed and patch him up; he’ll die if we don’t.”

At the two last sentences, Roche relaxed slightly.

“What do you need?” he asked quietly, looking at Geralt.

The witcher still lay on the stretcher, unconscious, breathing harshly, with one arm in a sling, dirty, bloody, bruised, dressed in rags: so different to the tall, strong man they all knew. He was a picture of misery, a tangible proof that even a legendary monster hunter was not indestructible.

Lambert and Eskel glanced at each other. Lambert kept tactfully quiet.

“A bed, a bonfire and a roof overhead, preferably in close proximity to each other,” Eskel replied. “We won’t refuse a blanket or two. We have the rest with us.”

Roche straightened.

“Come,” he said.

The witchers took the handles of the stretcher and followed Roche into the cave. Roche showed them a bedding at the end of one of the shorter corridors, a little away from the main camp. They had access to the rest of the cave from here, but they would stay out of the way and mostly hidden. There was a fire place, currently unlit, right by the bedding; a grate and a copper kettle stood nearby.

“You can use all of this,” Roche said. “If you need anything else, let me or Ves know.”

“Thanks,” Eskel replied sincerely.

They moved Geralt onto the bed. Ves brought them two blankets and a bucket with fresh water. Eskel thanked her with a nod.

Lambert removed Geralt’s swords from his back and put the White Wolf’s things by the bedding. He strapped his own two swords to the harness on his back and took the crossbow.

“I’ll get some wood,” he said and quickly left the cave.

Eskel stood over the bedding and sighed heavily. It was rare that he had to patch up someone in a severe condition; this time it was even harder, because Geralt was the closest person to him.

He removed his coat, put his swords aside, opened the bag with dressings and got to work.

For the next hour he washed off dirt, bandaged wounds, set broken bones. He removed whatever was left of Geralt’s trousers; the man lay naked under a blanket, with his crushed foot propped up on the spare blanket, rolled up to support it. The bedding was well isolated from the stone floor, so when Geralt started to shiver, Eskel knew it wasn’t from the cold.

Eskel gritted his teeth: he wanted to wait for Lambert before they administered the White Honey, but the matter grew more and more urgent.

It was as if the younger witcher could read his mind: he returned just as Eskel readied the vial with the detoxing potion. Lambert threw some dry wood and two shot hares by the fireplace.

“You like this crossbow,” Eskel noticed. Wolf witchers didn’t usually use long-distance weapons.

“Useful toy, I have to say,” Lambert admitted, putting it aside. He quickly started the fire. One gesture of Igni and five minutes later the water in the kettle started to boil.

Eskel sat behind Geralt, who was still shivering, and propped him up. Lambert slowly poured the potion into the open mouth of their wounded brother.

As expected, the vomiting started two minutes later. They immediately laid Geralt down on his side and put an empty bucket close to his mouth. The nausea lasted a few minutes; afterwards, the witcher calmed down and the purple color of his veins started to fade.

They left him resting on his side, slightly curled up: in this position he couldn’t choke if he started to vomit again.

Exhausted, they sat by the fire. Eskel kept glancing at Geralt as he tidied up their supplies in the bag; Lambert took care of the hares he’d brought. He quickly flayed them and started to dissect the meat. He threw pieces of it into the boiling water with some herbs mixed in.

The witchers didn’t pay attention to the soldiers in the cave, who stopped by every now and then to observe their peaceful activities. As the sun rose, the cave became busier. Nobody disturbed the witchers; the soldiers who had been asleep at night were informed about their guests. Some of them knew or at least had heard of Geralt, so they let the witchers be, either by the order of their leader, or of their own initiative.

“Eskel, flop somewhere in the corner,” Lambert suggested eventually.

Eskel looked at him with half-lidded eyes.

“You’re more tired than me,” the younger witcher added.

“I really didn’t know this side of you,” Eskel muttered and spread his blanket on the ground.

“I can always change my mind and become the charming motherfucker again,” Lambert replied with a sarcastic grin.

“No, wait at least a few hours,” said Eskel and laid down.

A minute later he was dead asleep, calmed by the presence of a friendly soul.

 

* * *

 

After a few hours Lambert did become the familiar motherfucker again: he woke up Eskel with a harsh shove to his shoulder.

“Up, sleepyhead!”

Eskel raised slowly. He glanced at Geralt, who was still sleeping. The man was lying on his back again; his breathing not as harsh anymore. The broken foot was sticking from under the blanket, less purple than a few hours ago, but still swollen. Geralt’s previously pinched face was relaxed; it was obvious that he was feeling better, but he still didn’t show any signs of waking up.

Eskel was afraid that the damage done to Geralt was irreversible. He wasn't worried about the ribs, fingers or the foot: those were set and shouldn’t cause any more problems. He had no idea though about the damage done by the intracranial bleeding that Triss managed to stop. In the worst case scenario, brain damage would be permanent and Geralt would be disabled for the rest of his life. In the less awful scenario, they would have the repetition of the situation from few years ago, when  they had found Geralt in the Kaer Morhen forest, miraculously alive, but with no memories. It hadn't been a tragedy then, and it wouldn’t be one now, but it had been painful to watch Geralt relying only on muscle memory in fight, completely unaware of his full capabilities. Geralt was the best of them, and the most resilient, damn it. Eskel didn’t doubt that if he had been that severely wounded, he wouldn’t have survived the escape.

Lambert’s voice shook him out of his reverie.

“Can you get some veggies for the soup? I’m afraid to talk to them.”

Eskel flinched.

“There are so many contradictions in what you just said, I don’t know what to begin with,” he admitted. “Since when can you cook?”

Lambert bridled up at that.

“Never too late for new skills!”

“Yeah, sure,” Eskel replied and headed for the exit.

He had no intention of asking the soldiers for anything; he hoped for some loot from the nearby fields. He was glad for an excuse to take a walk - he thought mostly about his wounded brother for the last day or so; a task of looking for the soup ingredients took his mind off the subject.

He wasn’t in a hurry. He reached the nearby village and in a bright daylight he deprived one family of some potatoes, carrot, celery, leek, onion and parsley. All of this could make a decent soup, unless Lambert somehow managed to ruin the hare broth.

The guards recognized him and didn’t stop him as he returned to the cave. Apparently his red jacket was characteristic enough.

Eskel felt decidedly better after his walk. He went to their corner, sat by the fire and started to peel the vegetables; the cut pieces were thrown into the broth. Lambert was quiet, busy sharpening one end of a long, straight branch, split on end. They didn’t pay attention to the soldiers. Geralt slept on.

“It’s weird to see him in this state,” a familiar voice said. Roche stood a few meters from them, leaning on the wall, his arms crossed. The leader was watching the sleeping witcher with a sombre expression.

“So don’t look,” Lambert replied, still torturing the branch.

Eskel glanced at Roche over his shoulder and turned his focus back to the soup.

“Don’t mind him,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “He still can’t come to terms with his fate and lashes out at everyone.”

“What fate?” asked Roche. The more time he spent with the witchers when they weren’t preparing for battle, the more interesting their company seemed. The scene before him was very homely. A very nice aura of friendliness and brotherhood of arms hovered over the three men; in such moments of peace they would most likely tease each other and get drunk, but in a moment of need one would jump into a fire for the other, as these two had for Geralt recently.

They were very human in this.

“Witcher fate,” Eskel said. “Hm, Lambert? How many years now?”

“About sixty, who’d count,” Lambert said with a shrug. He grabbed a second branch, about as long as the length between the two split pieces on the first stick, and started to sharpen both ends.

“You hear that?” Eskel asked Roche with an air of disbelief mixed with amusement. “Sixty years of bitching about something he had no control of.”

This caught the Temerian man’s attention. He straightened and looked at them warily.

“Wait. Lambert is sixty year-old?” he asked.

“Little more than that, nearly seventy,” Lambert specified. Seeing the surprised look on Roche’s face, he added: “Don’t you know that witchers are long-lived?”

“And he’s representing one of the last generations of witchers who actually went through the Trial of Grasses,” Eskel cut in, pointing at Lambert with the knife he was using to peel the vegetables.

“I assume that you and Geralt are older,” Roche said to Eskel.

“We’re pretty spry for a hundred-year-olds, don’t you think?” Eskel said with a toothy grin; considering the state of his face it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Roche was speechless. If Geralt and Eskel really were hundred year old, how old had their mentor been who had died in the battle of Kaer Morhen? Ignoring the color of Geralt’s hair, he would guess the three of them to be no older than forty-odd years; the thirty years of age difference between Lambert and the others was very difficult to notice.

Their behavior might have been very human in those moments between killing the monsters and fighting, but Roche realized again why people didn’t trust witchers. The folk would say that the more a non-human was similar to humans, the more alarming it was for the people. And these three witchers, without their cat eyes, would look like normal men. Probably soldiers or mercenaries. Or hunters, or adventure seekers.

“Don’t think so much, you’ll hurt your brain,” Lambert said, shaking Roche out of his reverie, then he turned to Eskel: “As for the bitching, you should know it’s my favourite pastime, so there's no way I will stop.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Eskel said, and threw the last pieces of a leek into the soup.

Roche just shook his head and walked away; the last thing he heard was Eskel asking Lambert about a swallow. He didn’t know what this was about, so he didn’t think much about it.

 

* * *

 

That evening Roche found Eskel sitting on a rock above the entrance to the cave. The witcher was holding a bottle and was staring into space, lost in thought.

Roche sat beside him without a word. The witcher glanced at him out of a corner of his eye and passed him the bottle.

“Temerian rye. Patriotic,” he explained.

Roche took the bottle and drank straight from it, winced, then returned the flask. Eskel took a sip without a wince.

“Considering the abominations you regularly drink, plain vodka leaves no impression on you?” Roche started.

“Plain vodka is raspberry juice compared to some potions,” Eskel replied with a sneer.

“How’s your patient?” Roche asked after a moment of silence.

“He woke up for a moment, said that his head, _quote unquote_ , hurts as fuck, drank a potion and some broth, and fell back asleep. He should be more conscious tomorrow,” Eskel replied and took a big gulp from the bottle.

“It’s hard for you to look at him in this state, too,” Roche guessed.

Eskel didn’t react.

“Probably harder than for me, considering you know him longer than I’m alive. And my parents. And grandparents,” Roche said.

“With all due respect and gratitude for allowing us into your hideout, what do you want?” Eskel finally asked impatiently, looking at him.

“I thought those mutations kill all emotions in you,” Roche admitted.

“Mute them, at most,” Eskel replied. “Witchers do have emotions. Most of us are usually pissed off and let off the steam on the job.”

Roche knew that Geralt was capable of a slightly wider range of emotions than just anger, especially considering the way he treated Ciri. They weren’t related, but a lot of girls would give a lot for such a caring and loving father.

He had no idea about the rest of the witcher population, though.

“And you?” he asked.

“Me? At the moment I wish your view on the witcher emotions was true, because I’m feeling like letting off the steam.”

“One bottle of rye won’t be enough,” Roche figured. Eskel’s confession sounded grim, but Vernon wasn’t worried. The wolf witchers seemed to have complete control over their behavior.

“True; we usually drink stuff with some witcher flavors added,” they heard Lambert’s voice. The younger witcher sat beside Eskel; the rock became crowded. “They’re more adequate for our metabolism.”

He passed Eskel a bottle. Eskel took a sip, winced this time, and returned the flask.

“You even make your own booze?” Roche sneered.

“Why the fuck not? If you spent a whole winter in a mountain fortress, what else is there to do, other than hunting harpies and fixing stairs?” Lambert replied with a shrug.

“Making booze sounds like a good alternative,” Roche said.

“And sampling it, too. To Geralt’s health,” Lambert raised the bottle, and drank a big gulp.

“Nooooo…” Eskel let out a drawn-out protest. “We won’t be sitting here while the fourth to drink is lying down there.”

He stood up, somewhat unstable. Roche started to wonder how much of the rye the witcher had managed to drink before he joined him. He quelled the instinct to support the witcher: he’d heard about Geralt hunting vampires while shitfaced, so his brother definitely would manage to get down to the cave all by himself.

“Fuck, Eskel, I came out for fresh air, I won’t be going back so soon!” Lambert called after him.

“Keep breathing then, I’m not stopping you,” Eskel replied and entered the cave.

“Fucking buzzkill…” Lambert murmured. He drank some of the booze, muttered something vulgar under his breath and went after his brother.

Roche remained on the rock for a while, then followed them.

 

* * *

 

That night they sat for a long time by the bed occupied by Geralt, and emptied the bottles. The witchers drank three flasks of their specialty, which appeared out of nowhere, Roche accompanied them with the Temerian rye. They did not remember how they got to their beds, but when they awoke in the morning, Ves looked at them with obvious disapproval. Roche decided to not ask for details. He also promised himself that he would never drink with more than one witcher at a time.

Lambert grabbed the crossbow and went hunting, Eskel stayed close to Geralt.

The patient's condition was slowly improving. His breathing was deeper and calmer than yesterday, and he looked less sick. He began to fidget a little in his sleep and seemed to be regaining consciousness: he could wake up at any moment.

Roche finally expressed his surprise that Geralt had been asleep for so long, but once Eskel counted his injuries, Vernon realized that the white-haired witcher was lucky that he was still alive. His sleep was clearly more of a coma. The partisans, largely hoping that the witchers would go away in a day or two, were quickly set straight: Geralt's stay could have been significantly extended, as not even mutants healed from broken bones in a few hours, especially not skull fractures, accelerated healing or not.

Geralt slept on.

Lambert went for a hunt a few times during the day, usually lugging smaller game back with him. It soon turned out that there was much more of it than the three of them needed. The situation became clear when the witcher asked Ves for help from “a soldier or two, more agreeable than the rest”, and when they returned three hours later, they dragged the bodies of three shot deers, and several more were left in the forest to be collected. This way Lambert filled the nearly-empty larder of the partisans. Fortunately, he did not have to prepare the meat himself - a few additional volunteers came to help. The whole group quickly divided, seasoned and smoked a large amount of meat. After that, the Temerians looked at the witchers a little more favorably. Animals living nearby had managed to learn to avoid the soldiers, but they did not have much chance against a quiet, watchful, quick witcher with a stable hand and a good eye.

Eskel did not comment on yet another change in the behavior of the younger witcher. He knew that one remark would cause the strange bubble to burst. Lambert grumbled, grunted, did not talk to anyone if he didn’t have to, but the last two days showed that he was fully capable of somewhat appropriate interpersonal interactions. He certainly did nothing to risk being thrown out of the hideout, which could have been why he preferred deeds instead of words. He did not risk saying anything stupid while feeding the whole party of partisans.

In the early afternoon Geralt seemed to awaken. Eskel sat down next to the bed, blocking the light from the fire. He knew that Geralt might have a weakened control over his own eyes at the moment, and in combination with the concussion, the sharp light would be unpleasant.

Geralt took a deep breath.

“Where are we?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“At the base of the Temerian partisans,” Eskel whispered.

Geralt slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to him.

“How long have I been unconscious?”

“One day since the last time you woke up. We got you out of prison two days ago,” said Eskel, studying him closely. As he predicted, Geralt was much more conscious than yesterday, but Eskel was still anxious. Geralt had been beaten too hard, he had been in the hands of the witch hunters for too long.

Geralt closed his eyes and sighed.

“Don’t look at me like that, Eskel, I remember everything. One amnesia in my life is enough.”

Eskel snorted with relief. When they looked at each other again, Eskel smiled.

“You had an intracranial bleeding, it had to be healed magically, so don’t be surprised that I look at you like this,” he explained.

Geralt extended his hand to him - Eskel shook it firmly, minding the broken fingers.

“How did they get you?” Eskel asked.

“They put out a contract,” Geralt said, rising a little on the bed. “A merchant’s caravan was lost in the swamp,” he continued, making the air quotes with those few fingers he could move. “Everything looked normal, the price wasn’t too low or too high. I was supposed to meet with the client in an inn. It didn’t surprise me that thirty people were sitting inside. The problem was that they were all witch hunters.”

“You surrendered?” Eskel asked. They would certainly have heard about a dozen or so bodies in the inn that Geralt would have been able to cut down, no matter how much the hunters would have tried to hide it later.

Geralt sat up slowly, grimaced as he felt dizzy, then leaned against the rock wall behind him. He looked along his body, assessing his condition - the left arm in a sling, all fingers of his left hand and two fingers of the right immobilized, splinted left foot, tightly wrapped chest, healing bruises. With his hand, he carefully felt the bandages on his head and a soft dressing on the back of his skull.

He wrapped himself tighter with the blanket. Eskel gave him a cup of water, and Geralt took a sip.

“Thought they just wanted to explain something, so far the hunters had left me alone,” he said finally. “Their intentions became clear when I got hit on the head and woke up chained to a wall in prison.” He shrugged with his good shoulder. “How did you find out?”

“From Dijkstra. Some rumors have already spread around the city, though; you have greetings from Dudu.”

Geralt snorted, closed his eyes and rested his head against the rock with care.

“And this healing magic was from Triss?” he guessed.

“Mhm. Keira also helped. And Lambert, of course.”

Geralt pried his head from the wall, opened his eyes and looked at him, his brow furrowed.

“How will I ever pay you back?” he poured all his gratitude into the question.

“You would do the same for us,” said Eskel, and he knew that in Geralt’s case, that was true. He patted his brother on his knee. “We can only hope that you won’t have to, because if I were in your place, I’d be long dead.”

Geralt looked away.

 

* * *

 

Dandelion found them a few hours later, riding into the camp on Pegasus. He brought Roach with him, which Geralt left in his inn after arriving in Novigrad, as well as another horse. The mare’s saddlebags were loaded with Geralt’s possessions, including spare clothes. The White Wolf was especially grateful for the latter, as he had been brutally deprived of trousers earlier.

Dandelion bravely endured the sight of his battered friend, murmuring something about having seen him in a worse condition, but during the conversation he spoke in a clearly distraught tone and could not take his eyes off Geralt.

In addition to the clothes, he brought news: someone set fire to the familiar bathhouse the night before. Dijkstra came out of it unharmed, but the perpetrator wasn’t found. It could have been an act of revenge from the witchers’ allies, who suspected the former spy had been involved in Geralt’s arrest, or from the witch hunters that guessed who released the news of the Wolf’s imprisonment, or from someone else altogether with whom Dijkstra could have had some unfinished business. None of the parties were eager to investigate the details, so the arsonist’s identity remained a mystery.

Lambert came back to his old bitter self very quickly, and after a rather dry farewell - despite ensuring the partisans had enough meat to last them a month - he went on his own way. Geralt and Eskel gave up the attempts to stop him, resigned. Only after a few more hours, when Geralt tried to get up, they noticed something that looked like a very simple crutch lying near the bed. Eskel recalled that this was what Lambert had been doing on the first day of their stay in the hideout. It was the last show of sincere brotherhood on the part of the younger witcher.

The witchers did not want to abuse the hospitality of the partisans, so after a short discussion they decided that Dandelion would return to Novigrad the very same day, while Eskel would accompany Geralt to the temple of Melitele in Ellander two days later. With broken fingers, ribs and a foot, Geralt would not have much chance in case of any trouble during the fairly long journey, so his brother had to serve as an armed escort. Although Eskel was not as closely associated with the Mother Superior of the temple as Geralt, Ellander was a safer destination than Brokilon. The dryads would have healed Geralt faster, but there was no guarantee that they would even let them both into their forest.

Dandelion wasn’t in a hurry to leave, so Eskel left him alone with Geralt - the friends talked for two hours, and as the bard was leaving, his eyes were damp. Geralt also had a troubled look on his face - they both didn’t know when they would see each other again. Novigrad wasn’t safe.

There was also a decision to be made about what to do with the Church’s hunt on witchers.

They were not an organized professional group. After leaving their respective schools, they would normally start an entirely independent life; they did not even have to spend the winters in the fortresses where they grew up. What’s more, they would avoid each other, especially representatives of different schools. There was no hierarchy between them, and they did not have to accept anybody’s authority.

Everyone had to decide for themselves.

 

* * *

 

News of what had happened to the White Wolf spread quickly, and the unbelievable happened: all the witchers that were up till now wandering the lands of Temeria and Redania, disappeared like a dream. None of them was captured by witch hunters—they simply left.

Everyone, without exception. The representatives of all witcher schools.

It was not a show of loyalty, but the opportunity to extend the span of life, and the rest was a coincidence. All the witchers knew it—and simple folk could interpret it in their own way.

The White Wolf returned to Toussaint after a few weeks of treatment in Ellander. Witchers of the Wolf School avoided the Radovid’s realm, travelling between Kovir, Kaedwen, Aedirn, and other lesser states that, though allied with Redania, were not under a direct influence of the stern king. More witchers appeared in the Empire of Nilfgaard, and Skellige. After a few weeks Temeria and Redania began to struggle with the invasion of monsters, with no-one left to hunt them.

The fraud that was used to capture the White Wolf was also revealed, naturally, so the witchers did not trust any contracts put up on notice boards anymore. Initially, the common folk who believed in the Eternal Fire, counted on the help of their Church, but when it did not come, and drowners, viverns, wolves and chorts began to approach the allegedly protected villages and towns, some started to question the Church’s teachings. Suddenly it turned out that witchers may not have been as bad as their spiritual leaders made them seem.

They were certainly needed, and the Church of Eternal Fire, by attacking the most famous of them, also indirectly harmed its followers...and sponsors.

It took a long time before any witcher dared to return to Redania and accept the first contract; long after the Hierarch of the Church of the Eternal Fire decided to leave the monster hunters alone.

The witchers from the Wolf School never returned. They were seen incognito in Novigrad, but they never took any contracts on Radovid’s lands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that in “Monstrum…” Lambert wasn’t that much younger than Eskel and Geralt, but these stories are independent. “Wataha” was written before “Monstrum…”, when I still had the headcanon that Trials were conducted for some years after the Pogrom of witchers.  
> And please, do not compare this translation to Google Translate. Polish and English versions tell the same story, dialogues are also the same, more or less, but this thing is treated as an independent work, meaning the mistakes of the original are corrected whenever possible and everything is made to go smoother than a simple, direct translation, if you know what I mean. And I’m so happy I have [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean) to thank for that, as she does the hardest work here :)


	5. The debt of gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months after Syanna’s death and Dettlaff’s escape, Geralt is still suffering the consequences of his decisions. The devoted friends he doesn’t even know he has come to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a part of my other story, ["Dom wiedźmina"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15466269/chapters/37867328) (Home of the witcher), set after the end of “Blood and Wine” DLC. I didn’t plan to translate it, but I like this chapter, and someone on tumblr sent someone a prompt that looked like taken straight from this story (after I published the original), so… inspiration can be weird.  
> It’s slightly AUish, since Geralt doesn’t have anyone living with him in Corvo Bianco (yet), except, of course, Marlene and his staff.  
> Word and POV wrangling (I resisted, sometimes ;) ) provided by [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean).

Guillaume discovered that Olgierd von Everec was a perfectly pleasant company.

True, his scars and something in his grey eyes suggested dark history and short-fused temperament, but the red-haired man was well-read, had extensive art and history knowledge, and perfect manners. It was as if he had recovered from hard times and started his life anew. He was also a good horse rider and had a keen eye for weapons.

And wine. In Toussaint, it was expected to have some knowledge about wines - and Olgierd passed the small test of the court sommelier which they had carried out for the Duchess’ guests’ delight two days after the nobleman had arrived to the capital, and with flying colours. He had admitted that he preferred to drink vodka, which he had put down to his Nordling origin, but he also had easily recognised the lesser known brands of wines.

All in all, he definitely attracted the Duchess’ attention. His manners confirmed the noble descent, the extensive knowledge on various subjects suggested in-depth education, and bandit-like scars combined with a pleasant exterior only increased his attractiveness in the eyes of the ladies of the court. The Duchess liked to sit him next to her during dinners; they would spend all evenings in conversation. The courtiers tried to spread uncomfortable gossip, but von Everec worked very hard to not fuel the rumours. If he had attempted to romance the Duchess, he must have been invisible. Nobody had caught him sneaking into her chambers yet.

The ride around Toussaint had been the Duchess’ idea, although Anna Henrietta had admitted that she couldn’t have joined them. Guillaume had volunteered as a guard, intrigued by the stranger. They were joined by Niklas, a Redanian man with a weird haircut, who served as Olgierd's one-man entourage, and Stephané, another knight from the ducal guard. The two of them rode in the back and kept an eye out for possible trouble.

During the ride, the young knight listened attentively to the red-haired man’s stories about the world outside of Toussaint. Olgierd liked to talk and was an engaging storyteller. He was also curious about the Duchy itself, as he asked many questions and listened with great interest to the answers. Although it was obvious from the conversation that he returned the Duchess’ affections, he stubbornly avoided the topic of Anna Henrietta's private life, displaying a praiseworthy tact.

However, after they left a village where they had been asked to take care of the witcher who had recently emptied the nearby kikimore nest, Olgierd fell silent. He rode next to the young knight, clearly lost in thought. Guillaume quickly sensed the change of mood and did not disturb his companion, although he was curious about the reason of his sudden silence.

“Ataman, sir,” Niklas called, pointing to a bay horse grazing in the nearby meadow.

Olgierd looked in the indicated direction.

The horse was in full gear, with a bit and a saddle in the knight style.

“It looks like the witcher’s horse,” said Olgierd, his eyes narrowed; it was the first time he spoke after they had left the village. “I don’t think anyone else rides with a monster head tied to the saddle.”

“I wonder where the witcher is,” Guillaume mused, frowning.

“Perhaps by the fire,” said Olgierd, raised an eyebrow at him and rushed his horse along the road. Niklas, commanded by Olgierd, rode off to the side, towards the horse.

“It’s called Roach!” Olgierd shouted after him.

Guillaume did not have time to ask how he knew it.

A few hundred meters away, a lone bonfire was lit by the road; a thin, white-haired man was sitting by. He was shirtless, with only a wide strip of white material wrapped around his abdomen. A red stain was spreading on his back, over the lower part of the spine, blood soaking the fabric and forming a small pool on the ground behind the man.

He sat with his legs crossed at the ankles, his hands rested loosely on his parted knees, covering a sword pulled from the sheath, with a loaded crossbow by his side. Pieces of equipment and armor lay in the shade.

Olgierd and Guillaume dismounted and slowly approached the man. Olgierd stood in front of him, next to the fire, careful to not block the light. He put his hand on the hilt of the saber strapped to his belt.

The man’s eyes were closed, his breath calm and deep.

“I’d prefer to meet again under better circumstances, witcher,” Olgierd said quietly.

The man opened his tired eyes and looked up at the nobleman. The golden irises flashed, cut with vertical pupils.

“Honestly, I’d rather not meet you again at all, but under the circumstances, you’re better than Her Highness,” the man whispered, then closed his eyes and sighed.

Olgierd smiled with one corner of his mouth.

Stephané bridled up at the mention of the Duchess, but didn’t say anything. He only looked around, still sitting on his horse.

“Gentlemen know each other, I assume,” Guillaume said cautiously as he stood between the witcher and Olgierd, slightly to the side, watching the two men.

“A few months ago I dragged him into a very dangerous adventure, and Geralt saved my soul in return. Hence I am more pleased with this meeting than he seems to be,” Olgierd explained, still observing the witcher; then he walked around him and crouched behind his back.

Geralt didn’t move. He looked sick in the light of the fire.

Olgierd started unrolling the bandage, very slowly and carefully. He behaved as if he was dealing with a wild animal, ready to bite at any moment. Geralt didn’t protest; he just sat there, passive.

Soon, the wound on his back appeared in all its glory: about ten centimeters long and up to a centimeter wide, it looked like a deep scratch with inflamed edges, running across the spine. Blood oozed slowly, especially from the widest part in the middle, over the vertebra, though the bone itself was not visible.

Olgierd poured some water over the wound. Geralt still didn’t move.

“You do realise that something is stuck in the wound, right next to the spine?” the nobleman asked over Geralt’s shoulder, trying to see the witcher’s face.

Geralt nodded but did not open his eyes.

“Probably that’s why it’s still bleeding,” he said. “Better not touch it with your bare fingers.”

Guillaume counted silently: they had talked to the peasants an hour ago. According to them, it took Geralt some two hours to collect the payment. Since the village had no money, the folk pooled their resources - they shod his horse, sharpened his swords, replenished his herbs supply. Eventually, Geralt had left, gaining the equivalent of what he would have liked in cash. The blacksmith told Guillaume he'd insisted on fixing Geralt's damaged armour but the witcher had refused, claiming he'd ride straight home. Guillaume and Olgierd rode into the village an hour after Geralt had left.

This meant Geralt had been actively bleeding for at least four hours.

“Do you live somewhere? A storm is coming,” Olgierd said, glancing at the black clouds gathering on the horizon. He grabbed the witcher’s shirt, tore it into straps, and began to wrap Geralt’s abdomen again.

“Corvo Bianco,” said Geralt and opened his eyes. “I stopped here because I didn’t know whether I’d be able to stay in the saddle,” he admitted reluctantly, and looked around.

“It’s an hour away,” Guillaume said.

He felt a twinge of anxiety at Geralt’s admission: between the witcher looking weak and pale like death itself, and him allowing a stranger to dig in his wound, he seemed far from an invincible monster hunter Guillaume had thought him to be. Geralt apparently was not only wounded, but actually sick. Or he didn’t care anymore, which was all the more disturbing.

At that moment, Olgierd’s companion brought Roach; tempted with apples, the mare didn’t protest. Geralt raised an eyebrow at the sight.

“Really? The name and an apple are enough for you to follow a stranger?” he said to his horse with some tenderness in his voice, still sitting on the ground.

The horse bowed its head and poked its rider. Geralt had to support himself to not fall over.

“If there’s a storm coming, it's time to go back to the palace,” Stephané said dryly, looking meaningfully at Guillaume. They all knew well that they could not take Geralt with them.

“I don’t know about you, noble knights, but I think the wounded should be helped and not left in the open during a storm,” Olgierd said, rising from behind Geralt; he seemed to sense the shift in attitude. He stood in front of the witcher, shielding him from the knight; his hand rested on the hilt of the saber at his side. His face was calm, but his sizeable posture and readiness to pull his weapon out was a clear warning.

Guillaume found himself facing a dilemma: he knew that generally he shouldn’t help the witcher, but his conscience told him to agree with Olgierd. Whatever had happened to the witcher had completely disarmed him and condemned him to the mercy of the people he met. Geralt had been lucky it was them who had found him. The knight felt some pangs of guilt: he had not thought of the witcher since he was released from prison, although he knew that Geralt was still not popular at court.

“We’ll take the witcher to Corvo Bianco and then go to the palace,” he informed Stephané and glanced at the nobleman who nodded in agreement. “If you don’t want to accompany us, you can inform Her Enlightened Ladyship and Miss Vivienne about our delay.”

Stephané glanced at Geralt, nodded, turned his horse and galloped straight to the palace.

“Geralt,” Olgierd said to the witcher, “can you stand up?”

Geralt did not answer, only looked at him with tired eyes. Olgierd sighed and bent to take the steel sword lying on the witcher’s lap. Geralt allowed the nobleman to put the blade in its sheath. Olgierd attached the weapon to Roach’s saddle and gathered the witcher’s things spread around the fire without asking for permission.

“Get up, Wolf, before the storm catches us,” he ordered when everything was packed into Roach’s saddlebags. He leaned over Geralt, put one of the witcher’s arms over his shoulders, and straightened again, holding him firmly.

Geralt was almost limp when Olgierd lifted him up; thankfully, the nobleman was strong enough to keep them both standing.

“What’s going on with you?” Olgierd asked, worried.

“Nothing good,” Geralt replied. He tried to get to his feet, but his knees buckled under him.

Olgierd cursed silently and exchanged a meaningful glance with Guillaume: Geralt was not the type of a person who would admit to a weakness to anyone.

Olgierd sat Geralt on Roach, then jumped on his horse and gestured to Niklas. They lined up on both sides of the witcher, who barely managed to remain upright. Geralt leaned forward in the saddle and breathed deeply through clenched teeth. Olgierd took Roach’s reins; the mare whinnied quietly.

Guillaume extinguished the campfire before getting onto his horse.

“We must hurry if we want to reach the palace before the storm,” he observed, looking at the clouds.

“You can wait out the storm in the vineyard,” Geralt suggested. He supported himself against the front saddle-bow with one hand.

“Let's get there first,” Olgierd said, watching him anxiously.

As the four horses moved slowly in the direction Guillaume indicated, a flock of ravens broke from a nearby tree.

* * *

They reached the vineyard before the first drops of rain fell on them. Tomas, Corvo Bianco’s stableman, quickly took over the four mounts after Olgierd helped Geralt get off the horse; Niklas followed the horses to the small stable. The witcher, hanging between the nobleman and Guillaume, was practically dragged home; he could no longer stop the groans of pain. Barnabas-Basil, who was waiting by the door, paled at the sight of his employer, but quickly led the men into the bedroom. Geralt was put on the bed, on his side, with his back to the door.

Guillaume moved out of the way not to disturb Olgierd who took the initiative.

“Geralt, where do you keep the dressings?” Olgierd asked, stabilizing the patient with a hand on his shoulder.

The half-conscious witcher waved at the chest in the corner of the room. Olgierd straightened up when a low, male voice came from the bedroom door:

“Although you undoubtedly have a lot of experience dressing wounds, a barber-surgeon will be more of use here.”

Olgierd and Guillaume turned abruptly towards the newcomer.

The voice belonged to a graying, slim man with black eyes and a crooked nose. He was dressed in a dark, slightly patched outfit, consisting of a long, brown, decorated tunic, a black vest that reached below the hips, black trousers, ankle high boots, and fingerless gloves. He stood clutching a strap of a bag with herbs that ran across his chest. The smell of these herbs was almost overwhelming and it was puzzling that they had not sensed it before.

“Regis,” Geralt said with a sigh; as he couldn’t turn around, he must have recognised the man only by his voice.

“Do you trust him, Geralt?” Olgierd asked quietly, looking at the newcomer with a watchful eye.

“More than you, on all accounts,” Geralt said weakly, and smiled with one corner of his mouth. His eyes were closed; relief shone through the pain and tiredness on his face.

“No offense, probably,” Regis said quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

Olgierd didn’t take any, but he didn’t want to leave his former savior in the hands of a stranger. He watched the visitor cautiously; Regis accepted his scrutiny, his demeanor calm.

“You do realise that your friend is…” Olgierd began, but Regis interrupted him.

“While I can't help but wonder how you know this, I can assure you that, yes, Geralt is aware of my species affiliation,” he said calmly. “The majordomo of this estate will be happy to attend to gentlemen now, and I will take care of our friend, if you let me.”

Olgierd glanced at Geralt. He opened his eyes briefly and nodded.

Regis practically pushed Olgierd and Guillaume out of the bedroom and shut the door with a thud.

Olgierd stood in the main hall, breathing deeply and trying to calm down. He had his fists clenched so hard his nails dug into his skin. His violent temperament came to the fore, although he was not really sure what he was angry about.

“Gentlemen, if you please,” the majordomo said softly, bowing, and pointed at the table where fruit, bread and cold meats were laid out; a bottle of wine was also prepared. The majordomo stood in a corner near the bedroom door, ready for a call.

Outside, they could hear the first thunderclap.

The men sat down reluctantly. They did not have the appetite, but Olgierd decided to try the wine. A white wolf was drawn on the label - that was also how the wine was named. The nobleman considered it a curiosity: he knew that White Wolf was Geralt’s moniker and he wondered if the name of the wine was a coincidence which the witcher treated as a good joke, or whether the white-haired monster hunter had something to do with it.

The wine came from the Belgaard vineyard, one of the most famous in Toussaint. It was dry, a bit spicy, certainly original in taste: it definitely suited the owner of the house.

“How do you know Geralt?” Guillaume asked Olgierd after a while, picking at the grapes.

“It's a long and grim story,” the nobleman replied as he lowered the goblet onto the table. He did not look at the young knight. “I got him involved in my affairs, putting him in mortal danger. He didn’t take it to heart and helped me later, although I still don’t understand why.”

“He saved your life?” the young knight remembered.

“More than that: my soul,” Olgierd corrected, but didn’t really want to dwell on the subject. “And you, sir knight? What reason is there for you to approach the person in her ladyship’s disgrace?”

“He saved my life twice in one day,” Guillaume admitted and shook his head, remembering. “It is also thanks to him that I won the favour and the heart of my Lady Vivienne.”

Olgierd smirked.

“A debt of gratitude…” he mused. “I wonder how he manages to get entangled in increasingly interesting scandals.”

“Indeed, Geralt's ability to find such troubles deserves closer examination—and ideally an antidote,” they heard Regis' voice. The older man left the bedroom, wiping his blood-covered hands in a clean piece of cloth, then he turned to Barnabas-Basil, still as a statue in the corner of the room. “If I may ask you for some soapy water and fresh dressings?”

The majordomo bowed and immediately went to the kitchen.

“How is he?” Olgierd asked with concern, and got up.

“I'm afraid he won’t join you tonight,” Regis said, looking into his eyes. “He was wounded close to the spine during the fight with kikimores; a fragment of the monster's claw got stuck between his vertebrae, sipping poison. I removed the claw, but some damage had been done. We can only count on the witcher's regeneration abilities.”

“How is he feeling?” Olgierd repeated sharply, clenching his fists.

“He’s unconscious and feverish,” Regis replied, unperturbed by the nobleman’s tone. “After the fight, he was slowly losing the feeling in his legs, he lost a lot of blood. I suspect that the recovery will take him at least a few weeks, if not months.”

“And all that because of a kikimore nest, for which he wasn’t even paid,” Olgierd snarled, but his anger was not directed at Regis. Guillaume was about to protest, but Olgierd stopped him. “Witchers do not engage in barter, they either take hard cash, or use the Law of Surprise. Geralt must be earning money to keep this house; he won’t buy paint or horse feed for new horseshoes.”

“I see you have some knowledge about witchers,” Regis said, nodding with appreciation.

“After meeting one of them, I got very interested in their field,” Olgierd said calmly, with a meaningful look. “I read a lot about their work. That's how I recognised your...species affiliation.”

“And much faster than Geralt, congratulations,” said Regis, bowing slightly and smiling with pursed lips. “It took him a few weeks and required some serious hints.”

“What are you talking about?” Guillaume asked as he listened to the conversation.

“Nothing that should worry you if it doesn’t worry the witcher,” Olgierd said, his expression softening. He sat down.

He felt a sympathy for the older man. If Geralt had no problem with the fact that Regis wasn’t human, and if they truly knew each other well, Olgierd believed that Geralt was in good hands.

The majordomo returned from the kitchen with a bowl; Regis took it and went back to his patient.

The storm lasted about two hours. During this time, Guillaume and Olgierd relaxed a bit and began to nibble on the food on the table. The majordomo remained at the ready; he asked the guests what had happened, and he also talked about the vineyard and the life in the area. Most of the time he was silent though, listening attentively to the conversation, clearly using the situation as an excuse to learn something about Geralt.

From behind the bedroom door, the quiet voice of Regis talking to Geralt could sometimes be heard.

Regis joined them again after a long while, clearly tired and worried. He sat down heavily at the table, grabbed a fork and began to play with it mindlessly, lost in thought.

“Will he recover?” Olgierd asked quietly.

Regis pursed his lips and remained silent for a moment, as if wondering what to say.

“How does he do it,” he finally said to nobody in particular, still staring at the table. He left the fork alone. “How does he do it that despite being hated by general population, he still gains the friendship of almost all decent people he deals with?” He looked briefly into Olgierd's serious eyes. “And it's not just gratitude, but a real friendship. Where does the theory that witchers are heartless killers come from?”

“Aerondight,” Guillaume said thoughtfully. At the others’ questioning gaze, he pointed at the the silver sword leaned against the wall. “Sword of the Lady of the Lake, offered to the knights who live by the five virtues. Honour, wisdom, bravery, generosity and compassion.”

He shrugged as if that explained everything.

“And his heart,” Regis added with a warm smile, clearly remembering something. “If it was only about chivalric virtues or paying off the debt, we probably wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“Then why did he fall into disgrace with the Duchess?” Olgierd asked quietly, cupping his wine goblet with his hand. It was silver, with a stand studded with precious stones, but there were no other similar cups on the table. Geralt probably found it somewhere.

“It's a long story, and one I don’t want to talk about right now,” Regis replied. “To satisfy your curiosity about his health though, I think he has a good chance to get back on his feet. I haven’t seen him in such a bad condition yet, but everything indicates he will recover.”

“Will you watch over him?”

“That's my intention,” Regis nodded. “Believe me, you are not the only one to owe him a debt of gratitude. Besides, I consider him a very close friend; we’ve gone through a lot together.”

Olgierd raised the goblet of wine in a quiet toast. Guillaume drained his cup; Regis only nodded in thanks, and then returned to the patient.

The storm finally passed; night fell in the meantime. Niklas came from the stable and announced that their horses were ready for the road.

The nobleman and Guillaume were escorted to the door by the majordomo and Regis. Before they left, Olgierd peeked into the bedroom. Geralt was asleep on his side, as straight as possible, covered with a blanket, with his back to the door; his long hair was a sweaty mess on the pillow. He was shivering.

On the bedside table lay vials of colored liquids, a bowl of blood-tinged water and a pile of clean bandages.

Olgierd shook his head sadly. After their last meeting, the Geralt that lived in his imagination had grown into an invincible warrior. Here, in this bed, lay a seriously ill man who was a step away from death, or disability.

Olgierd retreated quietly. On the way to the door, his gaze stopped on the weapon stand and the saber displayed on it. Olgierd gently ran a finger over the razor-sharp, oiled blade and the wooden handle.

“Iris... I see you are in good hands,” he whispered with a gentle smile and followed the majordomo.

The horses were waiting in the courtyard. Olgierd and Guillaume jumped into the saddles.

“I would like to thank you very much for your help to Master Geralt,” Barnabas-Basil said quietly with a bow. “I hope you will not have any trouble in the palace because of it.”

“I’m not Her Highness’ subject, anyway,” Olgierd replied. His horse danced impatiently on the cobblestones. “And if anyone has any grievances, I will explain myself with suitable generosity and compassion,” he added with a slightly predatory smile.

With his scars he looked like a bandit. Guillaume had no doubts that he would use more firm arguments if necessary, despite his friendly relations with the Duchess. Besides, he had absolutely no obligations here. He was a guest in Toussaint, so until he broke the law in a blatant way, he could say what he wanted and leave the Duchy as a free man.

Geralt's case troubled the young knight, but he knew it was a touchy subject. He suspected that Geralt was tired of the atmosphere around him and it could have even influenced his form during the hunt. And he had to earn money, because Corvo Bianco, although restored, still did not produce wine. The ducal camerlengo didn’t want to reward him for knightly deeds, and the poorer villages couldn’t afford to pay him in cash. The ducal guard spat on him; entering the palace would result in his immediate arrest.

The Beast case ended three months ago - although “ended” is not how Anna Henrietta saw it. With the Duchess’ sister dead and the murderer on the loose, Geralt had spent three weeks in prison before his friend had persuaded the Duchess to release him. The punishment, however, persisted and slowly killed the witcher. Winter started earlier this year, and Geralt didn’t manage to leave before passes were blocked by snow; besides, he was responsible for the vineyard. Had he been in Geralt’s place, Guillaume would’ve liked to know where he stood: whether, despite being allowed to keep the vineyard, he was to leave the Duchy, or whether he should attempt to live here as normal.

Guillaume cast a look behind as they were leaving Corvo Bianco. The property was beautiful: it was a real paradise on earth, especially for someone who didn’t have another home.

Three months should have been long enough time for the emotions to subside. The Duchess was still in mourning for her sister, but Syanna’s death was no longer an absolutely forbidden subject at court—unlike weeks earlier, when a mere mention of the case could have ended with exile.

So when they reached the palace, Guillaume decided to use some buffer between his enthusiasm and the possible wrath of the Duchess. He had no doubt that von Everec would easily be drawn into his scheme—while the knight didn’t know exactly what happened between Olgierd and Geralt, the red-haired nobleman treated the witcher with respect and care. Guillaume was also reasonably certain he would be able to convince the lady of his heart, as well as the captain of the guard, to join their case. Damien de la Tour might have been initially furious at both Geralt and himself, he often acted as the voice of reason about the whole affair, and still enjoyed the trust of the Duchess.

The next morning, after discussing the matter with Olgierd and Vivienne, the three of them met to see the Duchess in the presence of Damien de la Tour.

* * *

The Duchess’ entourage entered Corvo Bianco estate in the morning. Anna Henrietta, riding a horse, was accompanied by several guardsmen, the captain of the guard, and the knights Palmerin and Guillaume de Launfal. The last two had a somewhat tense look on their faces: as if they were not sure what was going to happen.

Three days passed since Guillaume had met the wounded witcher by the road. The Duchess spent two days thinking what to do with the fallen “knight”, and finally she decided to go to Corvo Bianco herself. Guillaume had tried to convince her that visiting Geralt so quickly after his accident might miss its purpose—they didn’t know whether the witcher recovered enough to meet her—but the Duchess ignored him. She said she would go before she changed her mind. The young knight surrendered, satisfied with his small success; at least the short-tempered ruler decided to see Geralt. He was also pleased that his uncle and Damien de la Tour went with them, as both were ready to stand up for the witcher if needed.

The entourage stopped in the main courtyard and one of the guardsmen helped the Duchess dismount. The panicked majordomo rushed out of the house.

“Your Grace!” he called. He fell to his knee before the Duchess and bowed. “To what do we owe this honour?”

He was clearly scared and surprised, and worried about Geralt—her displeasure with the witcher’s conduct was widely known, after all.

“We want to see the witcher; we’ve heard he’s sick,” Anna Henrietta said dryly, looking around the courtyard.

When she had handed the estate over to the witcher, it had been almost in ruins. Now the walls were lovingly restored, a herb garden was blooming, and sweet scents of various flowers were coming from the greenhouse. The house also looked beautiful from the outside, with the repainted facade and the renovated roof. The witcher’s bay mare nibbled the hay in the barn turned into a stable, the entrance to the cellar was reinforced, a small sculpture stood on the plinth...

The property looked inhabited by people who cared for it. A lot of money was put into it; money the witcher did not receive at the end of the contract for the Beast, so he had to pay for it all out of his own pocket.

She felt a strange warmth in her chest, as if she had drunk a hot tea too quickly.

Barnabas-Basil invited the Duchess and her entourage into the house; Damien and de Launfals went in after the Duchess, while the guards remained outside.

A refurbished, cool and surprisingly cozy interior welcomed them, complete with a table sagging under a wide selection of fragrant food.

The Duchess suppressed all warm feelings; after all, she had not come here to admire the property.

“We were just sitting for breakfast,” the majordomo admitted. “We would be honored if you joined us.”

“Where is Geralt?” the Duchess snapped, standing in the middle of the room. She ignored the majordomo's invitation, though the breakfast looked tempting.

“Your Grace,” said a tired voice behind her.

Anna Henrietta turned abruptly.

Geralt stood in the bedroom door with his hand against the door frame. He was morbidly pale, but he was on his feet—a bit stiff, but he stood, leaning slightly forward. He tied his hair back, and wore a simple shirt and black trousers; his feet were bare. He was clean, shaven and lucid.

The Duchess’ attitude softened a little at the sight of him. It had been three months since she had seen him last; she noticed he had lost some weight—more, in fact, than could be explained only by the recent illness.

“Witcher, you look like you're about to fall. Sit down,” she offered, pointing at the chair by the table.

“I am afraid, Your Grace, that if I sit, I won’t be able to get up on my own,” Geralt admitted, and smiled apologetically as he bowed his head with respect. It was obvious he was still tired. “If Your Grace allows, I will stand for now.”

Anna Henrietta fidgeted, uncertain; she folded her hands, unable to keep still.

“We were told about your adventure a few days ago. We are glad to see you are recovering,” she said eventually.

“Thank you,” said Geralt with a nod. “I had a lot of luck and good care.”

“We were told that your circumstances could have influenced your form during the fight,” admitted the Duchess. “We were asked to reconsider your situation.”

Geralt failed to hide his surprise; he stared at the Duchess wide-eyed for a moment.

“I admit, I don’t know what to say,” he said, shaking his head.

“The truth, witcher. Tell us the truth,” the Duchess replied firmly and came up to him. They looked into each other's eyes, Geralt even straightened up a little. “Do you regret your decisions regarding the Beast? Would you change anything if you had another chance?”

Geralt took a deep breath.

“Your Grace, believe me, I deeply regret your sister’s death,” he said and bowed his head again. “I will never forgive myself for not being able to save her.”

“Then why did you let the Beast go free?! Why did you not avenge Syanna, my knights, all the innocent people of Beauclair?!” she snapped, waving her hands.

“For two reasons,” said Geralt slowly, his voice calm. “Higher vampires are honorable creatures in their own way. Dettlaff, despite appearances, was not a cold-blooded killer; he mostly stayed away from people, but he was provoked and exploited, so he reacted emotionally. He promised he would leave, and would take the vampires attacking the city with him and he would never come back, and I had reasons to believe him. Besides, someone I trust put in a word for him.”

Geralt paused for a moment, his breathing heavy after his argument. He limped stiffly to the table, to a light chair, and supporting himself on the armrests, he slowly lowered himself to the very edge of the seat. He kept his legs stretched out, upper body leaned back to keep his back as straight as possible. He tried not to look nonchalant, but a sitting position was clearly painful for him. With one hand still on the armrest, he massaged his back near the loins with the other one.

The house inhabitants and the knights present at the scene, paralyzed by the display of the ducal power, did not even move to help him. They were the silent witnesses of the whole conversation, and they did not dare disturb the tense atmosphere.

Anna Henrietta remained silent; she stared at him, a little red on her face, still as a statue.

“According to our laws, after the attack on Beauclair and the murder of Your Grace’s sister, Dettlaff deserved to die regardless of his honor or motivation,” Geralt continued. He lowered his eyes, but after a second he looked at her again. “I was ready to fight him. However, if I had decided to kill him, I would have put my very close friend in mortal danger,” he confessed. “My friend helped me immensely and suffered a great deal during the search for the Beast. I wouldn’t have found Dettlaff without him. I know that he would have accepted the risk, but he had already put his life on the line for me once. I wouldn’t have been able to accept such a gift for the second time.”

“Another blackmail?” the Duchess asked quietly, frowning. “What was the main reason of your decision?”

“If I could kill Dettlaff without risking my friend’s life, I would have done it. And Dettlaff knew it. Believe me, it wasn’t an easy decision, and I had very little time to make it.”

“One killed to save someone’s life, the other let the murderer go for the same reason,” the Duchess shook her head. “So your decision was influenced by the vampire's promise and the possible fate of your friend. We are curious who this friend is, since you found him worthy making a concession to the murderer for,” she added with a snort.

“There are not many people I would do it for,” Geralt replied, his tone hardening.

“Being fully aware that you would put yourself in danger, this time from our hands,” added Anna Henrietta. She stood stiffly, struggling to remain calm, her hands clenched into fists.

Geralt just nodded.

“We hope it was worth it,” said the Duchess.

“I have no doubts about my friend,” Geralt replied, and sat a little straighter. “As for Dettlaff... I can always fix my own mistake,” he added in a low, hoarse voice, carrying a hidden threat, although the Duchess was pretty certain he was unable to fight anyone now.

She felt herself relaxing somewhat; she folded her hands in front of her in the manner that was characteristic of her: her elbows flexed, fingers of one hand hooked around the other's.

“We would prefer that you did not make this mistake at all, but discussing it over and over again is pointless.” The Duchess waved her hand, to end this matter. “We only have a question, what do you expect from us? That you will become the court witcher?”

“No, Your Grace, I'm in no hurry to be the court anyone,” Geralt said, and smiled through the signs of physical pain written on his face. “I just want to know where I stand. I would like to live here permanently, not being forced to leave, but the attitude of the knights and officials of Your Grace significantly impedes my work.”

“From what we have heard, you are depriving yourself of it very effectively,” said Anna Henrietta, and also smiled.

The majordomo and Guillaume exchanged glances over the table.

“You destroyed bandit camps, blew up monsters nests…” the Duchess continued.

“If I had to leave because there’d be no work for me, I wouldn’t be unhappy knowing that the people of Toussaint are safe,” Geralt said, his voice calm, hoping that his honesty would be enough to melt the heart of their unpredictable ruler.

The Duchess’ attitude softened even more as she watched him closely.

This was a very delicate situation. The smallest thing, one wrong word, could remind the Duchess of her anger and ruin the efforts of those who convinced her to come here. Geralt suspected it was Guillaume; maybe Olgierd took part in it. Maybe even Damien de la Tour, judging by the anxious glances he was throwing at him.

“Well,” said the Duchess finally, fidgeting again. “We will not prolong the visit, as we can see you are still sick. We have to admit that the vineyard looks beautiful; it’s clearly in good hands.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Geralt replied with a nod. “Perhaps Mister Foulty would show Your Grace around the estate?”

The watchful majordomo, standing by the bedroom door, clicked his heels and bowed.

“With great pleasure,” he assured.

After Anna Henrietta left the house, and with her Palmerin, Barnabas-Basil and Marlene, until then hiding in the kitchen, now carrying a tray of sweet buns. Geralt smiled at her. The woman patted his shoulder as she passed his chair.

Guillaume and the captain of the guard remained inside. Damien was glancing at him every now and then, clearly lost in thought.

“Do you need help getting up?” Guillaume asked, seeing that the witcher was trying to rise from his chair.

“If you don't mind,” Geralt agreed, and held out his hand to him.

Guillaume supported Geralt's back as he rose with a grunt. The knight held him up when the witcher staggered.

“Should you even be on your feet?” the knight asked with a frown.

“No, but in case you hadn't noticed, the Duchess of Toussaint visited me,” Geralt replied with a smile. He gestured to his bedroom; Guillaume held him as he limped towards the desk. “I realise that I didn’t even thank you for help. You probably saved my life. This meeting is your doing too, isn't it? I don’t know how to repay you.”

“No, witcher, you don’t owe us anything,” Guillaume said.

“Thank you again,” Geralt said,  looking into his eyes.

They reached the desk slowly. Geralt rummaged through the papers lying there.

“Can you pass it to Olgierd?” he asked and handed him a small envelope. “I know I've treated him quite coldly...”

“He didn’t take it personally,” Guillaume interrupted, accepting the letter. “I will pass it on.”

“Thanks.”

Geralt leaned with his hip against the desk, and kept flipping through the papers lying on it, clearly looking for something.

“Captain, can I ask you to come here?” he called to Damien when he found the second envelope.

The captain of the guard approached them.

* * *

“The wounded white wolf rests in his lair, surrounded by a small pack,” Olgierd said in the tone of a museum curator as he approached the villa in Corvo Bianco. He smiled.

On the wooden porch by the house stood a bench; blankets and pillows lay on it. Geralt rested on the cushions, barefoot and shirtless, with one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee; his left hand hung over the edge of the bench, the right was hooked on the open book on viticulture lying on his face. At one point he must have fallen asleep.

Geralt raised the book's back slightly to look at the newcomer from under the pages.

“I was banished from the house,” he admitted, uncovered his face and heaved himself up on the bench to sit up with his back against the armrest. He laid the book carefully onto the boards and shook his guest's hand.

“After all this time in Toussaint, you could have gained a little colour,” Olgierd observed; the witcher's skin was pale and scarred, but his muscles looked like they were carved by a sculptor. Geralt was a fine specimen of a male anatomy. Olgierd was taller and had broader arms, but the witcher was built like a killing machine - undoubtedly he was strong, and the finer body structure made him quick and agile, so he posed a threat to opponents of all kinds.

“It's hard to get a tan if one has no pigment in the skin,” Geralt replied, waving his hand towards the space he made on the other end of the bench; Olgierd sat down. “I have to admit that fresh air without the stress of hunting does me good.”

“You're getting old,” Olgierd said with a smile, leaned against the backrest and looked around the property.

“It's really time to retire," said Geralt, looking at the courtyard. “Fucking kikimores almost crippled me. It's been over a week now, and I still can’t walk normally.”

Olgierd studied him for a moment. With the afternoon sun glaring down Geralt seemed too overheated and lazy to pour a lot of anger into this confession, but there was some bitterness in it.

Olgierd noticed the word “almost”. Apparently Geralt would make a full recovery. The wound on the back wasn’t covered with a dressing anymore, so only the spinal cord needed to heal.

“You have a vineyard, you can let go for a while,” the nobleman said carefully.

“A vineyard that doesn’t produce wine. But right now I have no choice anyway, since I can’t hunt,” Geralt replied and shrugged. “Such a wound is a death sentence for a witcher on the Path.” He looked at Olgierd. “It would have been for me, too, if not for you and Guillaume.”

Olgierd looked into his eyes. After a few seconds he smiled with one corner of his mouth and nodded, accepting the unspoken thanks. He patted Geralt on a bare foot, lying next to his thigh. Geralt snorted.

“By the way, I'm a messenger,” Olgierd remembered, and pulled a scented envelope from his belt. “Her Highness invites you and your friend Regis to a feast a week from today. By the way, how does a witcher become friends with a vampire?”

Geralt accepted the envelope and pulled out the invitation.

“When he needs to meet someone friendly,” he began, while scanning the letter. “And isn’t looking for vampiric traits in good-natured barbers, met by accident, who were exceptionally good at hiding their nature. He's a higher vampire, he doesn’t need blood for survival. He’s also an abstainer.” He glanced at Olgierd. The nobleman listened to him carefully, his face neutral. “Regis isn’t a threat if not provoked, and he avoids such situations if he can. I suspect you two would get along. Regis has the knowledge typical to a nearly half-a-millennium-old vampire and loves to share it.”

Olgierd snorted.

Marlene left the house, carrying a tray of baked treats. Olgierd jumped up from the bench and took the tray from her with a respectful bow. Marlene just nodded her thanks and returned inside.

“From what I heard, the buns made by your cook had a big influence on the Duchess’ attitude,” Olgierd said, set the tray on the table, and poured some wine. He gave a cup to Geralt before sitting down.

Geralt laughed softly.

“Marlene is more of a chef than a cook. You shouldn’t imply she’s a servant,” he corrected, reaching for the cinnamon bun. “She comes from an old noble family. She’s a resident here,” he said at Olgierd's questioning look. “You have a mutual acquaintance,” he added in such a tone that the nobleman almost choked on the wine: he immediately knew who Geralt was talking about.

“She made a pact, too?” Olgierd asked, shooting Geralt an anxious glance.

“No, she disrespected him and was turned into a monster for about a hundred years. I came across her in a haunted house while searching for the Beast,” Geralt replied and bit a huge piece of the cake. He wiped the frosting from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“So you decided to take her in and let her roam free in your kitchen?” Olgierd asked ironically, but reached for a bun, too. After a bite, he barely restrained the groan of pleasure.

Geralt smirked.

“I brought her here so she could recover after I lifted the curse. She decided to stay,” he said and shrugged. “She’s here willingly, for as long as she wants. She hasn’t got tired of it yet, and apparently decided to pamper me. I’m not going to complain, as her cooking is one of the things that keep me from going crazy out of boredom.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t complain either,” said Olgierd firmly, biting into the cake. “Some fat on these bones of yours wouldn’t hurt. By the way, you have a knack for giving folk a second chance in life. Maybe this also explains your solution to the Beast's case.”

Geralt hummed and took a sip of the wine.

* * *

A carriage from the palace was sent for them.

Geralt shaved, cut his hair, and dressed in the outfit he had worn at the party in Mandragora a little over three months earlier, while looking for the Cintrian - a black doublet with gold and purple ornaments, matching trousers and shoes. He also wielded a simple black cane made of varnished wood, topped with a silver orb - it gave him an almost lordish appearance, but it was only practical, as he still needed help walking, even after more than two weeks of treatment and rest. He got tired easier than usual, his legs bent under him if he stayed upright for too long, but at least he could walk.

Regis was wearing a black overcoat and polished shoes; his hair was tousled, as usual. He left his inseparable herb bag at the vineyard, instead he kept a small sachet in his pocket, which he rubbed from time to time.

They were silent during the ride.

Together, they climbed the palace stairs, Regis supporting Geralt's back. Damien de la Tour welcomed them by the gates to the palace halls. He was not wearing his armour, but a courtly attire, all the go in Toussaint.

“Captain,” Geralt greeted him with a nod as they stood before him.

“Witcher; Mister Regis,” de la Tour replied, bowing. “Please, step inside. Her Enlightened Ladyship awaits you.”

Damien walked beside Geralt, adjusting the pace to the witcher; he also observed him, noting the stiffness of his legs. The very fact that Geralt had recovered so quickly was astonishing. The witcher walked straight, only occasionally supporting himself with the cane in his left hand.

“Witcher, I must admit that your revelations of the fifth would-be victim of the Beast gave me a lot to think about,” Damien said after a moment, watching his feet. “I hope you keep the evidence in a safe place.”

“Why do you ask? From what I remember, you wanted to burn the letter, so you didn’t accept it,” Geralt said quietly. The corridors were empty; only their steps and the rare clatter of the metal-covered tip of the witcher's cane echoed in the silence.

“Unfortunately, the rumors of the fifth name spread,” Damien said with a grimace. “The Duchess expressed her strong, not to say unhealthy, interest in the content of the letter.” It was an euphemism to convey the warning that he had spilled what they had talked about in Corvo Bianco two weeks ago, and someone could be searching Geralt’s house at the moment.

“Wonder in what state I will find my bedroom,” Geralt replied calmly.

Damien took two quick steps to get ahead, turned and blocked Geralt’s way.

“If you had known who the Beast's fifth victim would have been long before Her Enlightened Ladyship came to your vineyard,” Damien began, spitting the words through his teeth, “how honest was your regret that you hadn’t saved Syanna?”

Geralt was not easily intimidated. Despite the effort to appear threatening, Damien was well known for having a sensible approach in the whole matter and would not allow himself to explode, certainly not with the witnesses, and not in the palace.

“Completely honest,” Geralt said firmly, leaning on his cane. Regis stood a little ahead of him, ready to intervene, but for the time being he only stared at Damien in silence. “I believed that if the situation was handled with care, the Duchesses could be reconciled. Didn’t mean to take Syanna to her death. I hoped I could keep her safe; I hoped for a fair trial for her.”

Damien watched him with a hard, stony face. The wounds on his temple and cheek had healed quite well, but the scars they left gave him a more threatening appearance. It didn’t make any impression on the witcher, though.

“What purpose have we been invited for, Captain?” Regis asked softly.

Damien deflated. He lowered his gaze for a moment, and when he looked at Geralt again, his eyes were gentler.

“The Duchess agreed that you deserve an unambiguous decision,” he said. “She saw that remorse was eating you and she believed in your good intentions, though she didn’t like that your choices were driven by the potential fate of your… friend.”

Regis turned to Geralt sharply. The witcher did not take his eyes off Damien.

“You can expect further questions in this matter,” Damien said, noticing Regis' reaction out of the corner of his eye. “But generally, this invitation is a return to favour.”

“Did you advise against it?” Geralt asked.

“No, witcher,” Damien replied with a sigh. “I supported making a definitive decision, no matter what it was.”

Geralt nodded in silent thanks. They moved on. Regis held in the back, lost in thought.

Finally, they approached the hall where the banquet took place. The chamberlain opened the door for them.

“Sir Geralt of Rivia, Crest of the Bridge, lord of Corvo Bianco! Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy!” he announced.

Geralt entered the hall, with Regis close behind. The witcher stood by the door, supporting himself on the cane; it was long enough so he did not have to lean to the side.

The hall was full of people: courtiers, major noble families of Toussaint, knights, all sitting along three long tables. The Duchess’ chair stood by the far end of the table in the middle. To her left sat Olgierd von Everec, dressed in a decorated robe; he rose with the others at the chamberlain’s announcement. The Duchess rose, too, and gestured to the two empty chairs on her right.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” Anna Henrietta said in the silence that fell on the room. “You are the guests of honor tonight.”

Geralt bowed as deeply as his still aching back allowed him. Regis dropped respectfully to one knee. When they straightened up, they moved toward the indicated seats under the curious gazes of the revelers.

Olgierd came over to meet them.

“It's good to see you on your feet, witcher,” he said with a smile.

Geralt shook his hand and smiled, too.

“It's good to see a friendly face,” he replied, nodding.

The nobleman and Regis accompanied Geralt to the Duchess. The witcher bowed again.

“Your Grace,” he began, standing before Anna Henrietta. “I am extremely honoured by this invitation.”

“The time has come for us to forget our anger and bitterness,” Anna Henrietta began. Gesturing courtly, she spoke loud enough for everyone present in the hall to hear her. “This invitation is a statement that you have served your punishment and you are to be treated as a legitimate citizen of Toussaint. We hope that as soon as you make a full recovery, you will continue to make our homeland a place safe from monsters and marauders, as befits a real knight.”

Geralt hesitated for a moment.

“I take this mission with pride and joy, and promise I will fulfill it as well as I can, for the glory of the Duchy,” he declared and bowed again.

The Duchess smiled, pleased with his answer. She pointed to the empty chairs at the table.

Geralt sat by the Duchess, Regis next to him; Olgierd returned to his place. Anna Henrietta clapped her hands, the harps started to play again.

At the Duchess' inviting gesture, Geralt and Regis began to put food on their plates. Geralt did not have the appetite, but he nibbled on the palatial delicacies, and sipped the wine. He quickly realised that it must have been Sangreal.

“How do you feel, witcher? I admit I was frightened by the way you looked during our conversation in your home,” the Duchess asked, abandoning the official tone.

Olgierd bit off a piece of bread, listening to the conversation while trying to look inconspicuous.

“Much better, Your Grace, thank you,” Geralt replied. “I am giving myself two more weeks to recover, but a return to full form will probably take a while longer.”

“What happened to you?” the Duchess asked with a sincere concern in her voice.

“A moment of inattention that led to a wound on my back. A fragment of the kikimore claw got stuck close to the spine, poisoning the spinal cord,” Geralt explained. “Mister von Everec and Sir Guillaume de Launfal found me and saved my life,” he added, nodding to Olgierd.

“We couldn’t do much, we only helped you get back home,” Olgierd said, lifting a goblet of wine. “Regis was the one to provide the necessary medical help.”

“Don’t be so modest,” said Geralt. “Under the circumstances what you did was crucial and you have my gratitude for it.”

“Mister von Everec mentioned that you had met in quite interesting circumstances,” said the Duchess, changing the subject. She took a sip of wine.

“Interesting, but also sad and dangerous in many aspects,” Geralt confirmed. “They surely were a hard and unforgettable lesson.”

Regis tilted his head with obvious interest. Olgierd looked down at the table and pursed his lips.

“What lesson?” asked the Duchess.

Geralt hesitated.

“You must bear the consequences of your mistakes and decisions,” Olgierd said, without lifting his gaze. The Duchess turned to him abruptly. “Finding the path around life obstacles and wishful thinking never leads to anything good; quite the opposite. Unless you’ve got a damn...a lot of luck and find the right...witcher,” he finished, looking up at Geralt. He smiled with one corner of his mouth.

Anarietta looked at him, then at Geralt, eyes wide with surprise.

“I don’t understand,” she admitted. “I guess, however, that this is a difficult topic for both of you, so it will be best if we leave it alone. Let us talk about something else.”

Geralt sipped his wine again, savoring the rich, spicy aroma. Time passed quite nicely, with no one but the Duchess and Olgierd paying him any attention. Regis was mostly silent, too; he ate scarcely, did not drink at all, stared at the table thoughtfully and spoke only when he was addressed. Geralt sensed a certain tension in him and decided to leave him alone. He knew what it was: the Duchess and the captain had no idea which friend Geralt had risked his own head for, letting the Beast go, but Regis had to draw the proper conclusions after the conversation with Damien. They hadn’t talked about it before, and Geralt had absolutely no intention to ever make him aware of his reasons, but the truth had come to light now. The witcher was sure that a very serious conversation about the importance of friendship and the debt of gratitude awaited them once they get back home.

Fortunately, Regis, unlike Dettlaff, would face potential conflicts rather than run away from them. Geralt preferred to keep silent about certain topics, but if he had no choice, he would also choose to clarify the whole situation. For now, he could only hope that his vampire friend would cheer up with time.

Meanwhile, Geralt was engaged in an easy conversation with the Duchess and Olgierd. The Redanian nobleman turned out to be a very pleasant companion, intelligent and with a somewhat dry sense of humour. Geralt started to like him and realised that he wouldn’t mind if they met more often. Olgierd expressed his desire to stay in Toussaint for longer, to which the Duchess reacted with a barely concealed enthusiasm.

After the feast, some of the revelers went to the adjacent hall to dance. Geralt politely declined, blaming his aching back, although Regis, whose humor actually improved, cast a meaningful look at Olgierd. They all knew that even healthy, the witcher would refuse to dance. Anarietta was a bit disappointed, but quickly changed her mind when Olgierd offered himself in Geralt's place.

Geralt got up with a grunt and went to the balcony that offered a breathtaking view of the city. Corvo Bianco was hidden behind the hill.

Regis joined him soon; they were alone.

“So you didn’t kill Dettlaff because of me?” the vampire asked in a quiet voice.

Geralt looked at him calmly. He expected this conversation: Regis would not give up the topic that was so important to him.

“What would you do in my place?” Geralt asked. “You said yourself that you wouldn’t stand in my way if I decided to kill him, meaning you knew he deserved to die. What other reason I had to not do this?”

Regis stared at him with his piercing, black eyes. It lasted almost a minute, which Geralt endured patiently.

“I would protest,” Regis said. “I would argue that you risked your health and life for me, that I couldn’t accept such sacrifice...but then I would be a hypocrite, and that would be unbearable.”

Geralt only nodded with a slight smile.

“I would like to thank you,” said Regis. “And express the hope that we won’t have to make such decisions again.”

“I don’t know; do you have any other blood brothers stuck in turbulent relationships?” Geralt asked, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms.

Regis laughed softly.

“Fortunately, the list of people I owe my life to is very short and already exhausted,” he said, and pat Geralt on the shoulder.

For a moment they admired the view of the duchy in silence; Dun Tynne castle was dark on the horizon, some lights were flickering in Vermentino. The sky was clear and full of stars, the moon has not yet risen. The air was chilly - snow seized the mountain peaks and passes, and although it was always warm in the Duchy, the wintry breeze could be felt at night.

Damien de la Tour came out onto the balcony, his face more grim than usual; Anna Henrietta followed, clearly agitated.

“Here you are, witcher,” she began.

Olgierd von Everec slipped in to join them a moment later; no one protested that he was there.

Regis hid behind Geralt's back for some reason.

“We must discuss one important issue that remained after your investigation,” said the Duchess.

Geralt glanced at Damien, the captain lowered his eyes; Anna Henrietta noticed this.

“Yes, you see, you have a bad influence on our trusted people who suddenly feel like withholding the important information from us,” she continued. Her voice was cool, her posture stiff. Geralt could only guess that the envoys to Corvo Bianco had returned empty handed. “We know that you know the name of the fifth potential victim of the Beast. We also know that you talked about it to Damien, but he says he doesn’t know who it would be. And we think that he is lying, which is the first step to being accused of high treason.”

Damien paled.

“Your Grace,” interrupted Geralt quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Sir Damien de la Tour devoted his life to the service of Your Grace and the Duchy. He is absolutely loyal to Your Grace, and I believe in his intelligence. If he thought he shouldn’t have revealed the fifth name to Your Grace, he had good reasons. Which I agree with.”

“Why was this decision not left to us?” the Duchess snarled.

“Your Grace,” Geralt said quietly, looking into her eyes. “When I learned that fifth name, you were mourning your sister. Sister who died because of my oversight. Sister who commissioned the murder of five people by manipulating her former lover, a higher vampire.”

The Duchess clenched her fists, her hands by her sides. Regis stiffened. Geralt knew that perhaps he was just wasting the last two weeks of diplomatic groundwork done by Guillaume, Olgierd and Damien, but he had no energy to make up lies. Anna Henrietta was an adult woman at the height of her power, and he had no intention to treat her like a recalcitrant girl wielding an ax, even if he really had to pay for it with his head. He didn’t care anymore. He wanted to finally and definitively end this whole matter, and either leave for good, or stay for a peaceful retirement.

“Dettlaff never received the fifth letter and had no reason to kill anyone else. At that time, I decided that this knowledge wouldn’t have helped Your Grace, but would have only added to your pain,” he continued. “A week and a half ago, Sir de la Tour came to the same conclusion, even asked me to burn the letter, but I didn’t.”

“Where is the letter with the fifth name?” the Duchess asked sharply.

“Here.”

Geralt pulled the letter from his pocket and offered it to the Duchess.

Anna Henrietta flinched, staring at the curled piece of paper. Geralt pursed his lips, stood motionless, with the letter in one hand, leaning on the cane held in the other. His heart was pounding. Regis was still hiding behind him. Olgierd and Damien were silent, observing the scene.

A minute passed.

Eventually, the Duchess drew in a sharp breath and let out a kind of a sob, but her eyes remained dry. Damien took one step toward her, but Anna Henrietta raised her hand to stop him.

“I know whose name is in this letter,” she said, as if giving up, her voice quiet and calm. She dropped her hand. Everyone noticed that she abandoned the official tone again. “I know what my sister did. I know why. I know what the fifth victim was supposed to represent.”

She paused for a moment, staring at Geralt. The witcher did not move, the letter still in his hand extended towards her.

Anna Henrietta gently touched his arm and made him lower the letter. Geralt squeezed the paper, still silent.

“Thank you, witcher. And you, Damien,” she continued, glancing at the captain of the guard. “Let's not go back to that.”

Geralt nodded.

“Olgierd?” the Duchess said, reaching out towards the red-haired nobleman.

Olgierd came over and offered her his arm; Anna Henrietta took and they returned to the palace together.

Damien nodded to Geralt and followed them.

Geralt looked at Regis. They both let the air out of their lungs at the same time. Geralt staggered a bit, Regis supported him and gave him a gentle pat on the back.

The nightmare was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed the writer!  
> (next time we're gonna have something nice happen to Geralt, for a change.)


	6. Festival in Gulet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of how a certain witcher and a certain bard met for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I didn’t plan to translate this one. I loved writing the original - it was the very first Urywek. I was really proud of it, because I somewhat managed to fake Sapkowski’s style… but it’s much harder in English, especially with the official translation that kind of... sucks.  
> But the last two Bits were such a hurt/comfort fest, that I decided to add something without Geralt being hurt. So, enjoy.

Dandelion didn’t pay attention to the tall, thin, white-haired man hanging around the marketplace. He was too busy hitting on a certain comely maiden - and then running away from her brothers.

What Dandelion didn't realise though was that the tall, thin, white-haired man paid attention to him. He kept noticing the poet's purple hat, adorned with a feather, popping here and there in the crowd, and he couldn't help a sarcastic smile. The man could easily smell trouble, and this peacock of a poetaster seemed to be asking for it.

Dandelion found himself cornered near an inn by the Vengerberg Gate. He hid behind the crates standing near the stable door.

“They’re around the corner,” he heard a male, hoarse voice and jumped, stifling a scream. He turned around and saw a tall man leading a horse, its saddle bags packed. The man wore a long black coat with the hood pulled over his head, well-worn trousers and dusty, leather boots. Only a stubbled chin and a long nose were seen from under the hood. The man’s eyes were partially hidden, although they seemed to glow in the dim light.

“What?” Dandelion asked stupidly.

“The brothers of that charming girl you screwed under the musicians’ podium are around the corner,” the man explained, slightly shoving the hood back. His eyes were dark, but somewhat weird. The poet, surprised, didn’t think about examining them closer.

“Damn it,” Dandelion muttered and cautiously peeked from behind the crates.

“You should leave the city, master poet, one of these four is a known swashbuckler,” the man added.

“How am I supposed to do that, my good sir, if they’re skulking in the inn I’ve left all my possessions in?” Dandelion barked, irritated by the indifferent tone of the man’s voice.

The man glared at him for a long while with a stony face.

Dandelion finally noticed what was weird about his eyes: the pupils were vertical, cat-like. Added to the almost deadly paleness of his face, it created a rather disturbing - and unmistakable - picture.

“You’re a witcher?” Dandelion realised with a start.

“A witcher,” the man confirmed, his tone still indifferent, but a slight change in his posture suggested he expected an unpleasant reaction.

Dandelion couldn’t blame him. Witchers didn’t have the best reputation: they were considered monsters, only a little better - if at all - than the creatures they hunted. They probably had it thrown at their faces more often than not.

Well, this witcher was in for a surprise.

“Could you help me, sir?” Dandelion pleaded. “The innkeeper has my pack and lute. I just need to take my horse and I’m ready to go, but they will catch me.”

The witcher kept glaring at him and Dandelion wanted to curl up under his gaze. The man’s pale face was perfectly devoid of any emotions.

Finally, the witcher sighed and threw off his coat, revealing a leather jacket with sleeves and shoulders studded with silver. A belt crossed his chest;  the tip of a long sword’s handle protruded from behind his shoulder.

Only now Dandelion noticed that the witcher had a fairly characteristic haircut: his shoulder-long hair was loose, held off his face by a leather headband.  Hardly anyone wore it that way.

The witcher handed Dandelion his coat.

“Give me that hat,” he said. Dandelion did as he was told. “Put on that coat and take your horse, better not speak to anyone. Get past the gate, we’ll meet by the signpost.”

“Sure,” Dandelion agreed cheerfully. He donned the leather-smelling coat and pulled the hood over his head.

The witcher sighed and moved towards the entrance to the alley.

“Sir!” Dandelion called after him.

“What?”

“Why are you helping me?”

The witcher turned and smiled: it might have been intended as friendly, but it looked ugly instead.

“Because you’re an idiot, but a harmless one,” he replied. “If you were malevolent, I wouldn’t lift a finger. Go. And if you run away with my horse, be sure that I will find you even at the end of the world. And  give you a witcher treatment .”

“I’ll take only mine, I promise, sir. See you in a moment,” Dandelion replied; he went to the stables, took his horse and left the city through Vengerberg Gate, unbothered.

The witcher joined him half an hour later.  Without dismounting , he passed Dandelion’s pack and lute to him; he kept his hand extended to the bard. It took a moment for Dandelion to realise he was waiting for his coat.

Dandelion took it off and handed it to the witcher. The man threw it over his shoulders without a word, hiding the sword still hanging on his back; then he urged his horse to move along the road.

“My thanks, good sir,” Dandelion started, riding beside the witcher. “Where are you headed, if I may ask?”

The witcher gave him a sideways glance. Dandelion wasn’t discouraged; there was something trustworthy about this stranger.

“Where the road leads,” the witcher replied.

“Would you mind if I joined you?”

The witcher didn’t reply. Dandelion took it for a good sign.

“How do they call you, sir, if I may ask?” Dandelion wasn't giving up.

“Geralt,” the witcher replied simply.

Silence fell again. Dandelion hoped for a returning question, but none came.

“I am Dandelion, a troubadour,” he said eventually.

“And a rascal, who poorly chooses his lady-companions,” Geralt added. Dandelion was sure that there were some notes of amusement in the man’s dry voice.

“Well, none of them start the acquaintance by saying how many brothers they have, and all of them like a nice word or two,” Dandelion replied with a smile.

Geralt snorted.

They rode, side by side. Dandelion kept talking about silly things, Geralt occasionally replied with a word or two. They left Gulet behind them; it was close to nightfall. The road was fairly empty; except for a few merchant carts, heading the same way, they weren’t meeting anyone for quite long stretches of time.

They approached a forest. Geralt’s horse started to snort and dance lightly on the road, but Geralt calmed the animal, putting his hand on its mane.

“Easy, Roach,” he murmured and looked around, focusing on the shrubs between the road and the forest.

An infernal howl from the trees explained the horse’s agitation.

Dandelion felt all blood drain from his face; it must have gotten almost as white as Geralt’s.

Geralt, on the other hand, didn't seem bothered. He just leaned towards a long package strapped to Roach’s side and removed a second sword, shining like silver. He didn’t pay any attention to Dandelion. The bard’s horse stood firmly in place.

“What do you think, Roach? It sounds like a fiend,” Geralt said and jumped from the saddle. He strapped the second sword to the belt on his back and walked down the road. Only now Dandelion noticed something lying in the dirt, ahead of them.

Geralt leaned over the carcass, shook his head and returned to the horses.

“Now we know why the road’s so empty,” he said and mounted his horse again. “Mister Dandelion, go post-haste to the nearest village and ask in the inn about a contract for the monster in the forest,” he ordered calmly. He spoke slightly slower than before. “Ask how much they pay, but don’t tell them a witcher is coming. Wait for me there; I’ll join you in an hour or so.”

“If that something doesn’t eat me on the way…” Dandelion mumbled. Geralt’s stony calm worked on him as well: he was surprised he was capable of uttering a single word.

“No, it’s busy with something else. Go.”

Dandelion didn’t need to be told twice; with effort, he managed to force his horse to move forward. After a while the animal sped up to a gallop. Dandelion didn’t look back.

After a mile he reached a village. The night fell by then; the road was empty, only that hellish howl could still be heard. Dandelion didn’t feel safe even behind the palisade. He wasn’t worried about Geralt; the witcher must have known what he was doing when he went into that forest, and judging by his behavior, he hadn’t expected a difficult fight.

The inn stood at the center of the village. A notice was nailed to a pole by the door: looking for brave men to kill the monster in the forest.

Dandelion tied his horse by the trough, took his money purse, and covered his pack and lute with a saddle-cloth. Then he entered the inn.

It was almost empty: only a few patrons occupied the stools by the counter, and one of five tables. By some miracle, the innkeeper recognised Dandelion immediately.

“Mister bard! Welcome, welcome!” the man called, spreading his arms in greeting. “What brings you here?”

“The road, darkness, and wolves in the forest,” Dandelion replied lightly, proud that he managed to hide his emotions while his legs were still shaking. He sat on a stool. “I need to go on tomorrow, but be so kind as to let me taste some local delicacies.”

“We have no delicacies,” the innkeeper confessed sadly and poured some beer.

Dandelion took a sip: the beer was weak, but his parched throat welcomed anything tasting better than piss.

“Some devilish thing lurks in the woods; it killed all trade,” the innkeeper continued.

“I saw the notice.” Dandelion nodded.

“We all chipped in and got a hundred and fifty ducats from the whole village for the brave who would bring the head of the monster. Some went, none returned.”

“You didn’t think about hiring a witcher?” Dandelion asked innocently.

“Would they accept with that money?” The innkeeper shrugged. “They rarely use the road, they mostly keep to the woods; one would think they hunt travelers themselves.”

Dandelion took another sip. The innkeeper put a bowl of soup before him.

“Eat, mister bard.”

Dandelion grabbed a spoon with enthusiasm.

“Mmm. Too bad the place is empty, I could show you my appreciation with a ballad or two,” he suggested.

“Maybe tomorrow; there might be more in the morning. Folk are afraid to wander outside at night.”

They spent another hour on gossiping and listening to the howling outside. After that time, the door to the inn opened with a crash.

Geralt stood in the doorway. His face was calm, as always. His black coat disappeared somewhere, he wore only his leather jacket, trousers and boots. On his back hung his usual sword. He was covered in dust, but he managed to get his hair in order.

“Innkeeper, how much for that monster?” he asked without preamble.

Silence fell.

“Must’ve been hunting around here for two years, at least. How many went and died stupidly? Because I saw at least five skulls, two of them fresh,” Geralt continued as he approached the counter.

The innkeeper lowered his gaze, avoiding Geralt’s eyes.

“We can manage some fifty ducats…” he uttered.

Dandelion frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but Geralt was the first to speak.

“No-one would go into that forest for fifty ducats, especially not a rowdy son of a local merchant, judging by the armor on that torso I found in the lair.”

With a smack of his hand, he put a large, bloody tooth and a brooch with some family crest on the counter. The innkeeper glared at him, angry. He wanted to say something, but this time Dandelion was first:

“You told me something else. You mean you can tell the truth to a stranger on the road, but when a witcher comes, a fair job done―” he paused and glanced at Geralt. He noticed that the shirt under the jacket was red from fresh blood. “―and getting wounded in the process, apparently, you cut the fee! I’m starting to worry what’s in this soup.”

“You don’t want to know,” Geralt murmured, sniffing the air.

“A hundred and fifty ducats is what you said,” Dandelion said sharply. “And for the poor attempt at cheating, you will give us neat beer, roasted mutton and a place to spend the night, because since you know me, you know that I can conjure such a ballad that the trade won’t come back for another two years, even without the monster.”

“What’s it to you?” the innkeeper barked. The rest of the patrons, despite their solid postures, didn’t move.

“Theoretically, nothing,” Dandelion admitted. “But the witcher could have heard that howling, come here, ask about the contract and then leave when he heard those fifty ducats. And now the problem’s solved, the trade will come back and you can earn well over what you spend.”

“So, how will it be?” Geralt asked, crossing his arms on his chest. “Will you pay or want me to take the money the way you tell people witchers do?”

The innkeeper glared at them, but then he took a purse from under the counter and passed it to Geralt. The witcher weighted it in his hand, turned around and went to the far end of the room, where he sat at a table with his back to the wall  and began to unbutton his jacket.

“Mutton and beer,” Dandelion reminded the innkeeper and joined the witcher.

In the meantime, Geralt inspected the bloody stain, but found no wound.

“Not mine,” he explained when Dandelion looked at him in a silent question.

The innkeeper brought the beer. Geralt took a sip.

“Bring some vodka, too,” he ordered. The innkeeper shook his head with resignation, and returned behind the counter. Geralt leaned back and looked at Dandelion. “Your fame is more effective than my sword here, mister,” he said.

“At least in negotiating the payment,” Dandelion agreed cheerfully.

Geralt snorted, trying not to smile. Dandelion decided it was for the best, probably: a smile didn’t really fit his face.

“So, we have board and lodging,” Geralt started again. “What next?”

“You wanted to look for me at the end of the world. We could just go there?” Dandelion suggested. “To the east.”

“Why not, I rarely go there,” Geralt said.

The innkeeper brought the vodka and mutton.

“Not very often someone wants to talk with me, much less spend any longer in my company than absolutely necessary. Appreciate it,” Geralt declared awkwardly, raising the glass.

“I haven’t met a witcher before,” Dandelion confessed. “I’m open to new adventures and acquaintances. What do you say, mister Geralt?”

“Just Geralt,” the witcher corrected. “Let’s skip those sirs and misters.” He  toasted the bard.

Dandelion returned the toast and smiled. The man sitting before him seemed to be an unapproachable boor, but the bard felt like this could be a beginning of a beautiful friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt’s eyes were dark in the books.  
> And ugly smiles! And the headband! I can smell the paper!  
> Huge thanks to [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean) for helping me introduce some of my stories into the English-speaking world.  
> Big thanks to people who decided to comment: your time to leave some nice words is what makes writing fics worthwhile. Kudos are nice, don't get me wrong, but comments are nicer ;)  
> *happy wave from me* See ya!


End file.
